jacob julie frost

7 Jul

I had a pretty typical high school experience. I wasn’t popular, but I wasn’t socially crippled either. If I leaned either way, it was definitely toward the latter. I did my own thing, never really cared what anyone thought of me, had a small group of friends I adored and generally flew just under the radar (with a few misguided blips). My junior year, like most silly girls, I fell in love with a boy. Mostly, I hate that this happened. At the time, it was great, because he loved me back, but as an adult who never feels anything for anyone, it seems like a lot of wasted emotion on someone who ultimately didn’t deserve it. I’m not bitter or anything.

The problem with this specific boy (his name was Jacob Frost) is that before we started dating, he was my best friend. And in fact, given that we had a fairly successful relationship, he continued to be my best friend until we broke up. Right around the time I graduated high school, we began fighting. And beating each other. Love taps, as I like to call them. About a month into my freshman year of college, we called it quits, a decision we claimed was mutual, but really was nothing of the sort. The short story is… that he had stopped caring months before, and I finally stopped letting him get away with it. Also, he was getting blow jobs from my friend’s roommate… That played a little part in it as well. I’m not bitter or anything.

Jacob desperately wanted to stay friends. Like me, our constant togetherness and co-dependence over the past two years had separated us from all our other friends. Unlike me, he was living at home with his mother and working at the local Applebees (which had just opened, good for him!), while I was away at college with lots of access to new and interesting people. He called me constantly, showed up in town unannounced several times (which all made sense when I found out what was going on over in my friend’s dorm room), and generally pathetically tried to keep some remnant of our relationship alive. I say that like I was all tough and trying to teach him a lesson, but really I was too heartbroken and devastated that he didn’t want to be with me anymore to even talk to him. Eventually he stopped trying.

It took me a pretty unhealthy amount of time to get over that one. Like really unhealthy. Like I called him yesterday and hung up when he answered.

But really. Late in my sophomore year of college, we started talking again. Never in person; it was always on AIM or every so often over the phone. I had transferred to a school even further away, and we made plans to see each other the next time I was in town.  Except that never happened. Within two months, some girl he worked with ended up with child. A year later, Jacob was married with two children (how did that happen? oh, turns out Julie, his baby mama, was already some other guy’s baby mama). I’m not bitter or anything.

So yeah. I was pretty disgusted with him, he stopped talking to me, and the final nail in the coffin of our friendship was firmly intact. Several years later, when I no longer had an emotional reaction whenever I heard his name, he showed up on Facebook. In my opinion, people like Jacob are the reason why Facebook should be awesome. He is someone I was once really close with, but no longer have access to. Voila, Facebook. We friended each other (not even sure who initiated), we exchange a couple bland messages, and that’s it.

One day, I was feeling particularly nostalgic, and he showed up on FB chat so I decided to IM him. Suddenly I realized that I was talking to Julie, and bitch is pisssssssed that I’m talking to her husband. Whatever. A few months later, Jacob’s username was changed to Jacob Julie Frost. A few months after that, the profile picture changed to one of Julie. I’ve always been pretty unhealthily anti-marriage because I’m terrified of losing my own identity. Case in point. Jacob can’t even have his own fucking Facebook account. Somehow, I was force-fed a Facebook friendship with my first love’s wife, someone I despise, despite any niceties I may fake whenever I see her.  Oh! And she’s constantly playing Farmville. And Frontierville. And Zoo World. I don’t care if you need a fucking hammer or your crops dusted or whatever. STFU! But I’m not bitter or anything.


david kramer

2 Jul

A couple years ago, I decided that I needed a boyfriend. Not because I was lonely or anything, but because I was having trouble finding someone that would obey me on a consistent basis. I’ve never been a ‘Meet a Guy at a Bar’ type of girl, so I turned to the truly wicked world of online dating. I’m sure many people meet their soulmates online, but I just don’t get it. I always end up more disappointed when I finally meet them in person. I prefer things the old-fashioned way, ya know, shouldn’t my parents be forcing me into a betrothal to an evil lord in exchange for a herd of sheep or something? But I digress; I could write a book about the disappointments of online dating. Don’t worry, I wont.

So David Kramer. We were matched on e-Harmony, and I was surprised a little because I knew this guy. Kinda. Like I was already stalking him. Kinda. Oooh, I just realized that this is eerily similar to another story, and another friend of mine on Facebook. Maybe I’ll write about Ryan Frost next. But I’m all over the place here. David and I were pseudo co-workers. Meaning he worked for a company that worked for my company. I had seen him around a lot, and spoken to him briefly a few times in group conversations. I messaged him and we met for coffee.

Our first date was alright. There was no magic chemistry, but with me, there really never is. I did like him though, and could picture us dating casually, which also never happens with me, so there was a bit of excitement on my part.

My friend advised me to proceed casually, but casual has never been my thing. They were replaying The Godfather at the local theater, which was really like the most perfect thing possible, because 1- I love The Godfather, and 2- He’s a guy, therefore he loves The Godfather. I invited him, and he claimed he already had plans on the night it was playing, but insisted that otherwise he would’ve loved to go. He suggested we do something that weekend instead, I agreed, and never heard from him again.

I’m not an idiot. I know when I’ve been rejected, and so I did what I always do when I’m rejected: bury myself in a cave of self-loathing until someone lures me out with frozen yogurt and a movie night.

Life went on. I saw David a few times at work, where we would always exchange awkward hellos. Finally, to my relief, he was fired. That first date was in September. The following spring, I was hiking in the canyons with Gabby Donovan when I ran into him and his dog, Dumbledore. He was very polite. He stopped and talked to me for several minutes, at the end of it, he gets this puzzled look on his face and says, “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

At this point I am furious. I guess I didn’t have a right to be, but as the person who remembers everything about everyone all the time, it does get pretty old to be so easily forgotten. All. The. Time. I mean, I remembered his fucking dog’s name, for christsake. I don’t remember if I told him my name or not. He knew I was mad. I wished him happy unemployment and walked away. When we passed each other again on the way back up the canyon, I ignored him.

A few months later, he adds me as his friend on Facebook. I accept. I online stalk him a little, online stalk his new girlfriend a little. You know, the usual.

A few months after that, we got matched on OkCupid, another online dating site. Guess things with his new girlfriend didn’t work out. I felt so terrible about that. Not.


28 Jun

I grew up in a really small, really redneck town. The year after I graduated high school, our first sit-down chain restaurant opened: an Applebees. It quickly became the hippest local hangout (weekly karaoke, nightly fistfights, and hourly drink specials). The Wednesdays before Thanksgiving and Christmas were always particularly big nights at Applebees, serving as accidental class reunions as everyone flocks back into town to see their families (and then realizing that they needed to go get drunk if they were actually going to spend that much time with them). The Wednesday before the Christmas my junior year in college stands out in my mind as all kinds of crazy.

It all started out pretty normally. I was in a booth with my two best friends, and James Gallagher, my gay friend I’d had since sixth grade. James and I convinced each other that it would be simply hilarious if we aggressively french kissed, just for laughs. Then I ran into a guy whose name I don’t even have to change for you because I only know him as Bulldog. Like literally, that’s what people call him. Perhaps I should change it to Cletus or Bobcat, but nothing else really says Bulldog like Bulldog.

I had met Bulldog a few weeks earlier at a much tamer Applebees evening. I had convinced him that my name was Natasha, and I was a foreign exchange student from Russia. This proves that Bulldog is an idiot. I didn’t even try to fake an accent or anything. Plus I’m pretty sure the people he was with vaguely recognized me from high school, but whatever.

So on the crazy night in question, Bulldog and his friend, Lee Burges (who we definitely went to school with), invited us to a party at Lee’s house because his parents were out of town. We accepted a ride there with Lee because we were way too drunk to drive. Once at the party, Bulldog immediately invited me to join him in Lee’s parents’ bedroom, a scenario just so darn sexy, I couldn’t resist. We were making out pretty disgustingly, and I’m pretty sure Bulldog thought he was going to get laid. Before I had the chance to tell him he was barking up the wrong tree (get it?), the door to the bedroom opened and in my drunkeness, I freaked the fuck out. My shirt was unbuttoned/almost off, and instead of just closing it, I pushed Bulldog off of me, jumped to my feet, and bolted toward the master bath. Unfortunately, the room was dark and I misestimated where the hallway was and ended up running face first into the corner of the wall. It literally knocked me on my ass. Turns out, the person who opened the door had just been my friend Hollie Rice, coming to check on me. Bulldog and Hollie help me redress and then carried/dragged me to the living room couch. Lee got me a raw steak to put on the shiner that was quickly forming on my face, and I spent the rest of the party nursing my wounds.

The next morning, Bulldog gave us a ride back to the Applebees parking lot, and as I’m getting out of the front seat of his car, he leans over and looks me in the eyes (one good, one black) and says, “I had a really great time last night, Natasha.” Hollie started snorting from the backseat. After Bulldog drove away, Hollie erupted into laughter and said, “What a night! But at least he remembered your fake name the next morning!”

The worst part of this entire incident is that it all went down just a few days before Christmas. So in all the holiday pictures that year, I have this awful black eye. Everyone wanted to know how I’d gotten it, but I just couldn’t bring myself to tell my grandmother about my scandalous night with Bulldog.

To be completely honest, I don’t know why Bulldog friend requested me over six years later. He must have found me because we have so many mutual friends, but I doubt he even realizes that the person he found on Facebook is his long lost klutzy foreign love, Natasha.

ramona neale

25 Jun

I had been working at ********* for several months before my co-worker, Gabby Donovan, invited me over to a pool party at her home. Her roommate, Ramona Neale, was very particular, and I was the only person Gabby had invited. I should have felt honored, but after only ten minutes, and a half bottle of white in, I realized that there were no men at this party. I had known going in that Ramona was a lesbian. I had even suspected that Gabby might occasionally lean that way. What hadn’t even dawned on me was that I was invited as potential fresh meat to this pool of incestuous, cynical, The L-Word loving hikers.

It was soon made very clear to these ladies that I was not interested in seeing anyone’s vagina. This clarity was arrived at by my drunkenly gleeful announcement in the swimming pool that, “I love cock!” followed by a fit of giggles (my own), and a ruffie paranoia so fierce that I not only poured all my own drinks, but refused to dip my head underwater in fear that I would miss someone slipping something into my drink. Yes, people, I am that irresistible.

What my caution didn’t protect me from was my own drunkeness. In (relatively) rare form, I ended up blacking out. The only thing I remember after my second bottle of wine, is locking myself in the bathroom for several hours and only letting in one particular orange bikini-clad lesbian with a bucket of fried chicken. I’m almost positive I let her in because of the chicken, not the bikini. Almost.

I survived the shameful stories that Gabby told at work on Monday, but I was never invited back to another party at her house. I was surprised when Ramona friend requested me, but I guess she was at least a little amused, because every time I head for the restroom at a work-related party, she asks me if she’s gonna have to send a lesbian with a bucket of chicken in after me.

ryan stokes

24 Jun

I was terribly shy around boys, even when I was in college.  I hated to make the first move, and avoided it at all costs. This caused much frustration with my friends, who insisted that I needed to be more forward if I ever was going to find myself a man.

One winter, we decided that we would attend a winter formal that the medical student association was putting on. I agreed to go, assuming that I would meet a soon-to-be wealthy physician who would provide me with a home, children and a no-limit credit card. My roommates entirely ruined this fantasy when they told me that I had to bring a date.  As in, provide my own. I had no idea who I would ask.

It was around this time, that I began hanging out with this really attractive guy from work. He was nice and funny and cute, which my roommates informed me were all good reasons to date a guy. So after a lot of encouragement from my homies, I decided to invite Ryan Stokes to the formal.

The setup to get him alone just to ask him was pretty elaborate.  I explained to him that I liked to study in the library of his dorm, which the school had just recently began locking.  After having dinner with him and another friend one night, during which I had ample chances of asking him, all of which I avoided, I asked him if he would let me into the library.  As he was fumbling with his key, I nervously stared at my feet and blurted out a too-long explanation of the formal and asked him if he would go with me.  He turned around, and looked at me, clearly surprised that I was “going there” and hesitated.  When he finally answered, it wasn’t the emphatic yes, followed by a passionate kiss and an invitation up to his room that I had expected.  Instead he said a little awkwardly, “It’s a possibility.”  And then he left.

I was PISSED! I went into the library and opened my law book, but I was unable to concentrate due to how appalled I was by the nerve of Ryan’s pseudo-rejection.  I started texting my friend Rachel Miller, who was home waiting to hear how things went.  When I told her what Ryan had said, we trash texted him for a while until I began to feel better off without him.

The library was really quiet, and though I was a bit humiliated by the spurn, I decided to remain there and finish reading the assigned chapters.

A little while later, Ryan came in wearing his pajamas and carrying a pad of paper.  Because we couldn’t speak in the library, he began writing me a note.  It basically said that he didn’t say yes right away because he wasn’t sure if he had anything proper to wear, but that he found a suit in his closet and all he needed were dress shoes, which he could purchase the next day.  He said he would be happy to go with me, but warned me that he could not dance.

I ignored his lack of enthusiasm, and immediately began naming our future children.

As soon as he left the library, I grabbed my phone and texted Rachel, “OMG, he said yes!”  After about ten minutes with no response, I went to check the status of the text on my old school Nokia, and realized with absolute horror, that in my excited haste, I had texted the person below Rachel in my contacts list: Ryan.

I was so mortified.  I immediately gathered up my books and hurried as far away from there as I could.  Ryan never mentioned the text, and we had a splendid time at the formal. Now, years later, I cannot look him in the eye without remembering that moment of absolute horror when I’d realized what I’d done. And yet we’re perfectly comfortable commenting on each other’s photos and liking each other’s statuses.

jenn g. and alonzo almonte

24 Jun

The summer after I graduated college, when all my close friends went off to start their actual careers, I was known to get pretty wild and loose cavorting about my small town.  It was at this time, that I decided to drag Jenn G, a girl I served with at ********* in the next town over, back to the local Applebees– where nothing good ever happens.

We were sitting at the bar for less than five minutes, when we were approached by two young men.  I recognized Alonzo Almonte from high school.  We were in the same grade, but we ran in entirely different circles.  He was basically your average popular, douchey guy who dated slutty girls and asked them to take a steaming, post-coital dump on his chest.  Or at least that was the rumor going around during our sophomore year.  I did not recognize his friend.

Alonzo and His Friend were immediately taken with us, as most men usually are.  Jenn G was really into His Friend, though I, having relieved my bowels a few hours before, knew things would never work out sexually between me and Alonzo.  But I decided to take one for the team, and go home with them so that Jenn G could get laid.

*Note: This is NOT Alonzo. If it were, trust that I would have followed him upstairs.

We went back to Alonzo and His Friend’s apartment, where we got drunker and played card games.  When the sexual tension between Jenn G. and His Friend became too much to bear, the two of them went upstairs to screw.  Alone in the living room, Alonzo looked at me seriously and said, “Well.  That leaves you and me…”

I looked at him equally serious and said, “Not gonna happen.”  I assumed this was the end of the discussion, and shortly after, I passed out on the couch.

When I woke up, the sun was just coming up.  And so was Alonzo.  He was straddling me, wearing only tighty whities, which he had somehow managed to maneuver my hands into while I was sleeping.  He was also licking my face and moaning that I was his little “vale-dick-whore-ian” (a clever nickname he’d come up with because I was a: our class’ valedictorian, thus the only reason he knew who I was, and b: going to be his whore).  I immediately started struggling, trying to get him off of me, but he was very persistent.  He began begging me to come upstairs with him.  At first I declined, but after realizing I couldn’t get him off of me, I finally agreed.  He went upstairs first and called down to me repeating over and over again, “Come upstairs my little valedickwhoreian.”

While he was calling for me, I snuck out the front door and went home.  I feel really bad about leaving Jenn G. there.  But I guess there weren’t any hard feelings because a few years later, she totally accepted my friend request.

As for Alonzo, I guess he was pretty angry.  Four years later, I found out that he was telling everyone who would listen that he saw me have sex with two different guys at one party.

chester smith

24 Jun

Sixth grade, was the year I had my first boyfriend. My entire class was reading a story out loud, and when the dialogue called for a character to whistle, I apparently impressed Chester so much that he came up to me after class and said, “You know, you’re a really good whistler.”

The obvious implication of this statement was that he wanted to go out with me.  Which basically meant, at twelve, that we would sit together at lunch, walk to class together, call each other every night, and that now I had to get him a Christmas present.  We also went on one date, where our parents dropped us off at the local movie theater and picked us up immediately after the movie was over.

After two months, I was tired of Chester.  As I have done in all my relationships since, I began looking for a way out.  When Mike C. joined our class in February, I realized I had found my solution.  All the girls in our class had a crush on Mike C.  I actually thought he was kinda lame, but Chester was definitely the jealous type.  He began questioning me suspiciously and incessantly about my feelings for this other man. At first I just denied it, but Chester wouldn’t let it go.  Finally, I told his best friend that it was over.

Chester tried to talk to me about it, and I avoided him for as long as I could.  One day, he finally caught up with me in the hallway, and with tears glistening in his eyes he said, “I just don’t understand what I did wrong.”

I looked at him seriously like the cruel little heartbreaker I am and said, “You know.  Oh, you know.”  I left Chester standing there, devastated by all that he’d lost.

The following day in math class as we were passing up our homework, Chester leaned across the aisle and said, “You’re a bitch.”  His two best friends sat in front of Chester and in front of me.  I was surrounded. They both looked at me and said, “Yeah. Bitch.”

I was completely taken aback. Never in my life had I been called this word, and I felt that tears may be an imminent danger.  I spent the whole rest of the school year avoiding any eye contact with Chester and his friends, though they continued to harass me and call me that horrible B-word.

The following year, Chester changed schools, and I didn’t see him again until our sophomore year in high school, where he suddenly turned up right across the aisle from me in my chemistry class.  All my middle school insecurities returned.  He never said a word to me, but every time he looked my way, or leaned over to retrieve a pencil, I feared he would look up at me and spit, “You’re a bitch.”

He never did. And he approved my friend request.

max hurtz

24 Jun

When I was in second grade, I fell in love with Max Hurtz. He was a child genius and from what I remember, one of the nicest guys I’ve ever known. On the playground, we would play tag and alligator with just each other (not as fun, but love makes you do crazy things). I could never tell if Max felt the same way about me, but he did make me a special valentine with bugs drawn all over it that said “how long will it beetle you’re mine?” No, I don’t still have it. Okay, I do.

When we advanced to third grade, our relationship changed dramatically. We were both in the gifted program which meant everyday we had to leave our regular classrooms (which were next door to each other) and walk together down the long hallway of the basement of our school and all the way upstairs to the other side of campus to where our gifted class was. After spending a few hours being really smart, it would be the end of the day, and we would walk back to our regular classroom for dismissal. We always made sure to take our time walking back, because if we took long enough, we wouldn’t have to participate in classroom cleanup. We used avoiding classroom cleanup as our excuse, but in truth I think we recognized how valuable every second we spent together was.

Max and I became very creative in our attempts to lengthen our journey. There were bulletin boards all along the basement hallway of artwork drawn by the first graders.  Each day, we would examine each piece very carefully and comment on the potential that the artist may or may not have had. When we reached the end of the hallway, I would always open my pencil case and “accidentally” drop it, spilling my pencils all over the place. We would pick them up one by one, sometimes kicking them in the direction of where we’d come, so we would have to walk down the hallway again. Our teachers never caught on.

We were inseparable until I moved away in the middle of third grade. I was devastated to have lost my first love. I think we planned on writing, but we never did.

Years later, when I was in high school and feeling particularly lonely and desperate, I decided to try to track him down. After only a few days of internet stalking, I was able to find him, which was a particularly amazing feat considering this was before MySpace or Facebook or really any social networking site. We began exchanging e-mails, and I realized once again, that he was in fact the love of my life. I was just mature enough to know, that any proclamations of our rekindled love would have to wait until college, when we would be coincidentally reunited at the same school, possibly in the same dorm if I could pull the right strings.

While waiting for the universe to bring us together, life got in the way and our stars never aligned. It was in college, which we attended several hundred miles apart mind you, that I once again found him on Facebook. Turns out, he was majoring in Musical Theatre. He ended up graduating a year early and moved to New York with his boyfriend to pursue a career on Broadway.

I tell myself that he realized if he couldn’t have me, no other girl would do.

we may be friends on facebook, but…

24 Jun

I come from a rich internet lineage.

My father is a computer programmer, and growing up, we always had at least three home computers.  I remember being one of the first kids in my middle school to get on AOL.  And for as long as I can remember I’ve been getting myself into some sort of online shenanigans.  My parents grounded me in sixth grade after I proudly announced at the dinner table that I’d been in chat room telling old men that I was a 20 year old pole dancer trying to put myself through nursing school while single-handedly raising my 4 year old daughter.  In high school, I created multiple screen names so that I could fuck with my friends.  I was socially ridiculed because of things I wrote on my online journal. I made friends online, and lost friends online.  I’ve done it all: Livejournal.  Facebook.  Myspace.  Twitter.  You name the online social network, and I am or have been a part of it.

And because, in my late twenties, I am still at just about the same maturity level I was in sixth grade, I am still getting myself into all kinds of trouble online.

A few days ago, I was showing a friend of mine pictures of this girl I went to high school with who married this other guy I went to high school with and their baby pictures.  My friend asked me for some detail about this girl’s life that I didn’t know.  She said, “I thought you guys we’re friends.” And I replied, “Well, we’re friends on Facebook, but…”

And it was then that I realized I use the phrase all the time.

So I went home and really looked at the people on my friends list.  Now, I have always considered myself somewhat selective when approving friend requests.  I don’t accept ones from people I don’t know, who say I “sound cool.”  I also don’t accept requests from people I hated in high school.  If I hated them then, I’m sure they’re even more of a douchebag now. And yet so many of my so-called friends are people I barely know. What’s worse is that my interactions with most of these “friends make for some pretty darn ridiculous stories. These are those stories.