"They're stress pooping! Everywhere!"
Again, I find a little pellet settled nicely on a blanket, or a pillow, or my shoulder. Little Stella and Steve couldn't handle being held, touched, or even really looked at. The stress proved too much and manifested itself in a little brown turd.
I never thought I would have to restrain a small animal, but that's all I've been doing lately. The cage (probably manufactured for a small dog), has proved useless in their relentless attempts at freedom. The moment one gets put inside, it will climb up the bars to what I only imagine it screaming, "FREEDOM!" in a Mel Gibson voice. We've since amped up our security with chicken wire, numerous blankets, a candle, and a laundry basket. We thought it would be enough, but I still come home to find these little Houdini's sitting on the top, looking at me with a smug look of satisfaction that says, "Fuck your cage."
Having an animal that doesn't want to immediately snuggle is also frustrating. Dogs: Always. Cats: Eventually persuaded. But NO. They can't just calm their tiny little heads down so that I can GIVE THEM MY LOVE. It really gets me right in that spot that hurts. The metaphorical heart, or whatever.
Steve and Stella, such a dynamic duo. While both are girls, Beth and I decided that Steve was the best option because we don't conform to gender stereotypes. We're progressive by letting our pets have whatever name we choose for them.
So basically I'm writing this to inform you I have rats living my apartment now. Our landlord said no pets, so we got rats because they're under the threshold of real pets, right? Little pets that won't relinquish their love to me.
I'm only waiting to get home to find Steve sitting atop the cage with his little mouse paw flipping me the bird.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Chinese Family
Ever since I got back from China, I made the goal to try and learn some more Chinese. I had mastered a few key words and phrases (like telling a taxi driver to take me to an egg instead of an airport), but figured that if I was ever going to get past the level of "sad immigrant," I would have to do something.
So, I enrolled in Chinese for the semester.
I didn't really know what to expect from this class at all. In high school, I had taken few Spanish classes (Hola, me llamo Ryan. Me gusta gatos y perros y bibliotecas. Te gusta levantar pesas? Bueno.) and those had been rendered useless over the years by my unwillingness to study, so I wondered where this class would leave me. Surely, I was ready to study for a college class. I mean, what else have I been doing for the past four years?
Which brings us to now; halfway into the semester with my vocabulary slowly growing, but constant frustration at my heels. My professor's teaching style is that of, "Here is a powerpoint presentation that I am now going to read to you word for word and I will have you parrot some things back occasionally." It's not my favorite, but I participate.
"How many people do you have in your family?" My professor said. This question, on repeat like a BB gun, constantly smacking us unaware and fumbling around for an answer.
"Uh, five." the blonde guy in the corner said.
"Five. Who are they?" He was relentless, this small, Chinese man. First how many, then who they were, then occupations; what next? their favorite 80's movie?
"Well, my dad is an engineer--"
"Engineer!" He blurted out, which was quickly followed by the Chinese equivalent.
Please spare me from this blitzkrieg.
"You! How many?"
I knew my numbers well enough, but I didn't know all the words for siblings.
"Uh...five..." is what came out.
"Who are they?"
I began in Chinese, "a mother...a father...a younger brother...and older brother..."
A quick mental count in my head told me that I had left out three of my real sisters, added a new brother, and also forgotten a made-up new sibling, but I was past the point of caring.
"OK, now talk to the person next to you."
I turned to the girl next to me (A girl notorious for wearing the exact same outfit to class every day: Grey zip-up hoodie, blue bootcut jeans, and faded, black, slip-on shoes. The shirt underneath the hoodie varied from day to day, but it was lost underneath everything else. I often wondered if she either washed these items frequently, or had a stockpile of the exact same thing she could vary from day to day. I imagine her looking in the mirror and saying, "You know, I'm going to mix it up today and wear Tuesdays pants! Ah! I'm so bad!" and then accidentally wearing Wednesdays pants again.) and she began asking me the same questions.
"How many people do you have in your family?"
"I have four...I mean five! I have five people in my family." I said, stumbling over my own lie.
"Who are they?"
"I have one older brother."
She looked at me for a second, putting together the inconsistencies.
"I thought you said you had two brothers."
"Yeah...and a younger brother. He's 17." I had to give him an age to make her believe he was a real person.
She continued to stare at me, "OK, do you have any pets?"
"How do you say, 'my dog is dead,' in Chinese?"
So, I enrolled in Chinese for the semester.
I didn't really know what to expect from this class at all. In high school, I had taken few Spanish classes (Hola, me llamo Ryan. Me gusta gatos y perros y bibliotecas. Te gusta levantar pesas? Bueno.) and those had been rendered useless over the years by my unwillingness to study, so I wondered where this class would leave me. Surely, I was ready to study for a college class. I mean, what else have I been doing for the past four years?
Which brings us to now; halfway into the semester with my vocabulary slowly growing, but constant frustration at my heels. My professor's teaching style is that of, "Here is a powerpoint presentation that I am now going to read to you word for word and I will have you parrot some things back occasionally." It's not my favorite, but I participate.
"How many people do you have in your family?" My professor said. This question, on repeat like a BB gun, constantly smacking us unaware and fumbling around for an answer.
"Uh, five." the blonde guy in the corner said.
"Five. Who are they?" He was relentless, this small, Chinese man. First how many, then who they were, then occupations; what next? their favorite 80's movie?
"Well, my dad is an engineer--"
"Engineer!" He blurted out, which was quickly followed by the Chinese equivalent.
Please spare me from this blitzkrieg.
"You! How many?"
I knew my numbers well enough, but I didn't know all the words for siblings.
"Uh...five..." is what came out.
"Who are they?"
I began in Chinese, "a mother...a father...a younger brother...and older brother..."
A quick mental count in my head told me that I had left out three of my real sisters, added a new brother, and also forgotten a made-up new sibling, but I was past the point of caring.
"OK, now talk to the person next to you."
I turned to the girl next to me (A girl notorious for wearing the exact same outfit to class every day: Grey zip-up hoodie, blue bootcut jeans, and faded, black, slip-on shoes. The shirt underneath the hoodie varied from day to day, but it was lost underneath everything else. I often wondered if she either washed these items frequently, or had a stockpile of the exact same thing she could vary from day to day. I imagine her looking in the mirror and saying, "You know, I'm going to mix it up today and wear Tuesdays pants! Ah! I'm so bad!" and then accidentally wearing Wednesdays pants again.) and she began asking me the same questions.
"How many people do you have in your family?"
"I have four...I mean five! I have five people in my family." I said, stumbling over my own lie.
"Who are they?"
"I have one older brother."
She looked at me for a second, putting together the inconsistencies.
"I thought you said you had two brothers."
"Yeah...and a younger brother. He's 17." I had to give him an age to make her believe he was a real person.
She continued to stare at me, "OK, do you have any pets?"
"How do you say, 'my dog is dead,' in Chinese?"
Saturday, March 1, 2014
Psychics and Pizza
Back when I first tried to start dating guys, I fooled around with dating websites. Ignoring all of my upbringing of "stranger danger," and "everyone on the internet is an ax murderer," I made a small profile on an obscure dating website to see if I had what it took to put myself out there. Apparently, the criteria for putting myself out there meant having a profile picture and a description that was probably something like, "I enjoy books and food. People are tolerable." (Since this website has been cast aside like so many Yu-Gi-Oh cards from my childhood, I don't know what it looks like now. But, seeing so many different dating avenue nowadays, I figure that things haven't changed all too much.)
As time went by, I found myself meeting (meeting in the sense of talking to the internet) a lot of colorful characters. There was guy who had the small "inconvenience" of being married; the twenty-one year old who actually just turned sixteen; the "I'm only going to send you penis pictures" man; and let's not forget the foot enthusiast who offered me 50$ if he could lick my feet. I wasn't terribly impressed by the fish in this sea. Mostly, I was starting to wonder if everyone on the internet was an ax murderer living in my closet. I decided to stick it out a bit longer to see if there was anyone worthwhile; this is when I met The Psychic.
The Psychic didn't introduce himself as a psychic (that came up later), but as a guy my own age that seemed like not-an-ax-murderer. How could I pass up someone who wasn't trying to lick my eyeballs? We messaged back and forth for a little while before I agreed to give him my number and go on a date with him. Granted, he still could have been a suburban housewife posing as a guy on the internet, but the sheer number of people wanting to touch my feet made me realize that people are surprisingly honest on the internet...to a certain extent.
The day of the date arrived and I sent him a text to ask about details; when, where, dinner, etc. He suggested that we grab a pizza, rent a movie, and just hang out. Awesome, it wasn't anything high pressure that I had to really get ready for and I wouldn't be stuck in a restaurant wishing I hadn't ordered the spicy quesadilla. I did notice something a little odd though. At the end of each of the texts he sent me was a little signature that read: Psychic ________ (I'm just gonna leave out his name out of courtesy and relevancy)*.
Huh? Psychic? Not wanting to be overly chatty before the date, I didn't say anything about his signature. This way, if my usual rant about how sweatpants are not unacceptable in public didn't fly, I would have some topic on hand to talk about. I like to plan out conversations before they happen and this one was a goldmine:
-Oh, you're a psychic? How many dead bodies do you find for the police in a week?
-Oh, you're a psychic? Like the horse whispering kind or the "I can see dead people," kind?
-Oh, you're a psychic? I'm gonna choke on a marshmallow, huh? I just know it, you really gotta tell me. Don't lie to make me feel better.
-Oh, you're a psychic? Are crystal balls solar powered or satan powered?
As the time rolled around for the date to start, I hopped into my car and headed to his house. Not having a car, I would pick him up, grab a pizza and a movie, and head back to his home. The drive was a little nerve-wracking as I was meeting a stranger on the internet and I kept my fingers crossed that I wasn't going to lose a kidney or meet a 65 year-old woman.
I pulled up to the address I had been given and gave him a call as I was not about to knock on a strangers door in a neighborhood I didn't know. He would come to me (which also gave me time to high tail it out of there if I saw a flash of a hook/chainsaw). The Psychic opened his front door and I got my first look at the person I had only seen flattering pictures of on the internet.
Fortunately, The Psychic was not a 65 year-old woman, a man wearing a mask made of skin, or a pile of cats; he was actually the guy in his pictures. What I forgot about pictures on the internet is that they're usually taken to be flattering. The Psychic was about five-foot three and weighed about as much as a bag of feathers. His hair was a shaggy, dirty-blonde, and was swept to the side above his square glasses. His pants were skin tight, showing off his stick-thin legs a super model would envy. Overall, I was kind of unimpressed but was pretty sure that if he tried to stab me in the throat, I'd be able to fight him off.
Heading up the stairs to his house, I introduced myself and greeted him. He responded in kind and went inside where two small dogs started licking my shins. "Come say hello to my mom!" he said with a smile. "No, please no. I have something I left on the oven for a few hours." Is what I wanted to say. What happened to the good old days when one doesn't meet the other's parents until said parents are presented with a cow of appropriate girth and udder size?
I went up some to a higher level of the house and was then greeted by his mother and his mother's friend who were watching the Oscars while eating pizza. They were genuine friendly women, but also probably slightly intoxicated as evidenced by the few boxes of wine on the counter. "Want to head out and get that pizza?" he said. Yes. The first date was supposed to be something where I could focus on looking good for just one person, I hadn't budgeted for more. Meeting relatives was something I believed was reserved for a later date.
I fast-walked to the car and we headed out to the pizza place that he directed me too. The conversation was pretty mundane: "Oh, what do you like to do?" "How many siblings do you have" "Favorite color?"--all that first date stuff one needs to get out of the way. While getting the pizza, I was more than welcome to let him pay for it (I mean, it was the first date and I did drive out to his house and meet his mother and his dogs. As far as I'm concerned, I paid for my end by showing up and also by not being a murderer.). We then hit up a RedBox to see what movies we could rent.
When picking movies, I usually tend to let the other person pick. Not because I think that they'll pick something good, but because I don't want to pick something that's bad. See, if they pick a terrible movie and we both hate it, then I can blame them. But, if they pick a terrible movie and they like it, then I get to put that strained smile on my face and make non-committal statements like, "The lighting was really good," and "It was a movie alright!" (Sorry if you've ever picked a movie with me before and I've made statements such as those above. You are now warned).
"Go ahead, you pick."
He sat there for a second before choosing the film, "My Sister's Keeper." I groaned internally (For those of you who don't know this film, it's about a little girl who has a terminal illness and the only way to keep her alive is to borrow things like bone marrow, fluids, probably friends and dolls, maybe even secrets, from her sister. How should I really know? I didn't watch it. Well, it turns out that the sister was basically born so that the parents could use her to keep the other sister alive. Point being: it's not a happy-sunshine-flowers movie. But let's get back to the car.).
We had been talking the entire time of our pizza pick-up and sad-movie rental and I finally worked up the courage to ask him why his signature was what it was: Psychic ________.
"Have you ever seen the show 'Psychic Kids'?" I responded that, no, I had never seen/heard of that show before. "Oh, well I used to be on it." What exactly did that show entail? "There were other psychic kids and we would sit around and talk about supernatural stuff." That sounds pretty cool, I guess. Lots of entertainment value. "Yeah, it was." So...you're an actual psychic (while what I wanted to say was, "you think you're an actual psychic). "Yeah, sometimes I see things." You don't just make them up? "No, I'm a psychic." Wait, crystal ball kind of psychic? "No, that's just crazy." That's what I thou-- "Other people do that, I talk to spirits and sometimes I can see the future."
Yes, he was that kind of psychic; the kind who really believed. Well, at least he was giving me something to work with conversation wise. I asked him if he could see anything about me. "Could you read my palm and tell me how I'm going to die?" "No, I'm not really that kind of psychic." "What about my aura? You guys can see auras, right?" "You know, it's a gift that really only works with people that I'm closer to, so no." Huh. For a gift that was about being rather omniscient, he was being selective. Where were the dramatics? The puffs of smoke and bolts of lightning and evil laughter? Weren't psychics supposed to tell me of my grisly demise that I could only prevent if I did something completely drastic and irrational? This was getting disappointing. "Not even what I'm going to eat for lunch tomorrow?" I meet a real psychic and they won't even describe any future maiming for me.
The Psychic decided to continue by telling me about one of his latest visions.
"Yeah, I actually was able to know that my ex-boyfriend was going to break up with me before it happened." Yeah? "Yeah, it was really strange. I mean, I kind of saw it coming after we went camping and things didn't go very well. You see, the last night we were there he forced me to have sex when I didn't want to."
What.
Nope.
Date 32.
Date 673.
Date NEVER.
The Psychic had obviously decided that this was his "sweatpants in public" topic of choice and was going to run with it. He opened the floodgates and information that I would have deemed "information for close friends/family," kept coming out.
"Yeah, it all happened and then we broke up. But then I went and got tested and was really concerned when the test came back positive with HIV." The Psychic continued. "Turns out, they actually mixed up my test results with someone else."
"So...you don't know yet?" I said.
"They're figuring everything out and should have it back to me in a day or so. I mean, this all only happened a few weeks ago."
I could hear my own teeth grinding as I sat there listening to him. I had never met anyone before who had deemed themselves possibly HIV positive and I retreated into protection mode. All the knowledge I had learned in the two days of my high school online health class was thrown out the window and replaced by fear of the unknown.
I was a little stumped--I had no idea how to keep a conversation going. Now if I said, "Do you know what people should never wear in public? Sweatpants.", it wasn't anything compared to "My boyfriend raped me and I may or may not have HIV." So much for planning ahead.
"That...really sucks." is all I could come up with.
Not wanting to really delve deeper into The Psychic's life, I hurried back to his home to try and watch this movie and end this date. By now the pizza was cold, but I made sure to keep my hands on a piece and keep my feet pointed straight ahead as to avoid any instance of canoodling. My eyes began to wander the room: two cream colored couches, one love seat of accompanying color, two lace doilies covering two wooden coffee tables with small matching lamps (the kind whose lampshades one sees on an inebriated person's head), and short carpet that I probably wouldn't want to rub my face on. Every single item put in its specific place by a single mother and her small dogs.
The movie started and my mind was racing with the checklist of what to do next: Do I say nothing the rest of the night? Do I make small talk about the movie? What if I go to the bathroom and just never come back? What relatives do I have that could be dead soon? Despite my own prejudices of using a cellphone on a date, I pulled out mine to see what excuse I might muster up.
As I opened my phone, I saw that I had one message from my friend Grace reading: "I might call you and pretend that I need to go home and you need to go along with it."
How convenient.
"Me too." I replied
A short while later, my phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hi, mom."
So I'm her mom now.
What followed was a short conversation between Grace, her mother, and me listening blankly on the phone.
"But mom, I don't think I need to do that until tomorrow." she said, "Well, I guess if you really need me to come home now then I guess..." I couldn't help but wonder if Grace looked sincere on the other end of the line or if her expressions more closely resembled dogs when they're being punished. That would probably be good enough.
I hung up after Grace's mother decidedly told her daughter that she needed to go home. "Do you need to go home?" said The Psychic, "It's OK if you do."
This was my out. "No, I'm good; I really want to finish this movie." I said, putting on a big smile and glancing up at the screen to a bunch of weepy actors crying over who-knows-what. Hospitals and terminal illnesses, how romantic.
How long was I obligated to stay and watch a depressing movie on a first date? Considering it was a weeknight, I didn't think that I was required to really finish the movie, but at least get past the first 20 minutes.
About three pieces of cold pizza into this movie later, I decided I needed out. I also had to come up with a better escape plan than, "I need to go the bathroom for the next FOREVER." and sprint out the door. I knew I might not be the best on first dates, but I knew I was a little better than that.
I settled on the, "Gee, it's really late and I have to get up early tomorrow," excuse. Though it was easy to see through, it was more polite than setting something on fire and jumping through the window.
"Gee, it's getting late," I said as I checked my phone reading: 8:30pm, "and I have to get up early tomorrow...to swim."** The Psychic didn't put up any fight about this. I mean, first dates usually entailed some kind of physical contact and I had been about as approachable as a cockroach. Despite this, he was gentlemanly and walked me out of his house.
"Would you like any pizza to take home?" he asked as we came to the top of the landing and approached the kitchen where two pizzas still sat in their boxes, untouched and beginning to harden.
"No, I got enough...wasn't that movie depressing?"
"Yeah, I'd just been told to watch it so I thought it'd be a good choice."
I left him at the door with a small hug; his eyes at nipple level while I gave him a small pat on the back. With that, I hopped into my car and made my way back towards my house. While I drove away, I couldn't help but think if he might have seen this coming the whole time.
*You may be asking, "Ryan, why didn't you make up a new name for this kid? I mean that can't be too hard. I have twelve kids and it wasn't that hard naming them." Well, you wonderful person you, I decided not to make up a new name because the name's that I came up with weren't very fitting. His real name is the only one that feels right to me so the new label of, "The Psychic," give us the detail that we need. If you don't like that, you can go name more of your own kids.
**Throughout my high school years, I would get up at 5:30am every morning to go swimming. To accomplish this, I would go to sleep rather early. After high school though, this still became my go-to excuse when I wanted to leave somewhere at night. Sorry if you have been a victim of early morning swimming.
As time went by, I found myself meeting (meeting in the sense of talking to the internet) a lot of colorful characters. There was guy who had the small "inconvenience" of being married; the twenty-one year old who actually just turned sixteen; the "I'm only going to send you penis pictures" man; and let's not forget the foot enthusiast who offered me 50$ if he could lick my feet. I wasn't terribly impressed by the fish in this sea. Mostly, I was starting to wonder if everyone on the internet was an ax murderer living in my closet. I decided to stick it out a bit longer to see if there was anyone worthwhile; this is when I met The Psychic.
The Psychic didn't introduce himself as a psychic (that came up later), but as a guy my own age that seemed like not-an-ax-murderer. How could I pass up someone who wasn't trying to lick my eyeballs? We messaged back and forth for a little while before I agreed to give him my number and go on a date with him. Granted, he still could have been a suburban housewife posing as a guy on the internet, but the sheer number of people wanting to touch my feet made me realize that people are surprisingly honest on the internet...to a certain extent.
The day of the date arrived and I sent him a text to ask about details; when, where, dinner, etc. He suggested that we grab a pizza, rent a movie, and just hang out. Awesome, it wasn't anything high pressure that I had to really get ready for and I wouldn't be stuck in a restaurant wishing I hadn't ordered the spicy quesadilla. I did notice something a little odd though. At the end of each of the texts he sent me was a little signature that read: Psychic ________ (I'm just gonna leave out his name out of courtesy and relevancy)*.
Huh? Psychic? Not wanting to be overly chatty before the date, I didn't say anything about his signature. This way, if my usual rant about how sweatpants are not unacceptable in public didn't fly, I would have some topic on hand to talk about. I like to plan out conversations before they happen and this one was a goldmine:
-Oh, you're a psychic? How many dead bodies do you find for the police in a week?
-Oh, you're a psychic? Like the horse whispering kind or the "I can see dead people," kind?
-Oh, you're a psychic? I'm gonna choke on a marshmallow, huh? I just know it, you really gotta tell me. Don't lie to make me feel better.
-Oh, you're a psychic? Are crystal balls solar powered or satan powered?
As the time rolled around for the date to start, I hopped into my car and headed to his house. Not having a car, I would pick him up, grab a pizza and a movie, and head back to his home. The drive was a little nerve-wracking as I was meeting a stranger on the internet and I kept my fingers crossed that I wasn't going to lose a kidney or meet a 65 year-old woman.
I pulled up to the address I had been given and gave him a call as I was not about to knock on a strangers door in a neighborhood I didn't know. He would come to me (which also gave me time to high tail it out of there if I saw a flash of a hook/chainsaw). The Psychic opened his front door and I got my first look at the person I had only seen flattering pictures of on the internet.
Fortunately, The Psychic was not a 65 year-old woman, a man wearing a mask made of skin, or a pile of cats; he was actually the guy in his pictures. What I forgot about pictures on the internet is that they're usually taken to be flattering. The Psychic was about five-foot three and weighed about as much as a bag of feathers. His hair was a shaggy, dirty-blonde, and was swept to the side above his square glasses. His pants were skin tight, showing off his stick-thin legs a super model would envy. Overall, I was kind of unimpressed but was pretty sure that if he tried to stab me in the throat, I'd be able to fight him off.
Heading up the stairs to his house, I introduced myself and greeted him. He responded in kind and went inside where two small dogs started licking my shins. "Come say hello to my mom!" he said with a smile. "No, please no. I have something I left on the oven for a few hours." Is what I wanted to say. What happened to the good old days when one doesn't meet the other's parents until said parents are presented with a cow of appropriate girth and udder size?
I went up some to a higher level of the house and was then greeted by his mother and his mother's friend who were watching the Oscars while eating pizza. They were genuine friendly women, but also probably slightly intoxicated as evidenced by the few boxes of wine on the counter. "Want to head out and get that pizza?" he said. Yes. The first date was supposed to be something where I could focus on looking good for just one person, I hadn't budgeted for more. Meeting relatives was something I believed was reserved for a later date.
I fast-walked to the car and we headed out to the pizza place that he directed me too. The conversation was pretty mundane: "Oh, what do you like to do?" "How many siblings do you have" "Favorite color?"--all that first date stuff one needs to get out of the way. While getting the pizza, I was more than welcome to let him pay for it (I mean, it was the first date and I did drive out to his house and meet his mother and his dogs. As far as I'm concerned, I paid for my end by showing up and also by not being a murderer.). We then hit up a RedBox to see what movies we could rent.
When picking movies, I usually tend to let the other person pick. Not because I think that they'll pick something good, but because I don't want to pick something that's bad. See, if they pick a terrible movie and we both hate it, then I can blame them. But, if they pick a terrible movie and they like it, then I get to put that strained smile on my face and make non-committal statements like, "The lighting was really good," and "It was a movie alright!" (Sorry if you've ever picked a movie with me before and I've made statements such as those above. You are now warned).
"Go ahead, you pick."
He sat there for a second before choosing the film, "My Sister's Keeper." I groaned internally (For those of you who don't know this film, it's about a little girl who has a terminal illness and the only way to keep her alive is to borrow things like bone marrow, fluids, probably friends and dolls, maybe even secrets, from her sister. How should I really know? I didn't watch it. Well, it turns out that the sister was basically born so that the parents could use her to keep the other sister alive. Point being: it's not a happy-sunshine-flowers movie. But let's get back to the car.).
We had been talking the entire time of our pizza pick-up and sad-movie rental and I finally worked up the courage to ask him why his signature was what it was: Psychic ________.
"Have you ever seen the show 'Psychic Kids'?" I responded that, no, I had never seen/heard of that show before. "Oh, well I used to be on it." What exactly did that show entail? "There were other psychic kids and we would sit around and talk about supernatural stuff." That sounds pretty cool, I guess. Lots of entertainment value. "Yeah, it was." So...you're an actual psychic (while what I wanted to say was, "you think you're an actual psychic). "Yeah, sometimes I see things." You don't just make them up? "No, I'm a psychic." Wait, crystal ball kind of psychic? "No, that's just crazy." That's what I thou-- "Other people do that, I talk to spirits and sometimes I can see the future."
Yes, he was that kind of psychic; the kind who really believed. Well, at least he was giving me something to work with conversation wise. I asked him if he could see anything about me. "Could you read my palm and tell me how I'm going to die?" "No, I'm not really that kind of psychic." "What about my aura? You guys can see auras, right?" "You know, it's a gift that really only works with people that I'm closer to, so no." Huh. For a gift that was about being rather omniscient, he was being selective. Where were the dramatics? The puffs of smoke and bolts of lightning and evil laughter? Weren't psychics supposed to tell me of my grisly demise that I could only prevent if I did something completely drastic and irrational? This was getting disappointing. "Not even what I'm going to eat for lunch tomorrow?" I meet a real psychic and they won't even describe any future maiming for me.
The Psychic decided to continue by telling me about one of his latest visions.
"Yeah, I actually was able to know that my ex-boyfriend was going to break up with me before it happened." Yeah? "Yeah, it was really strange. I mean, I kind of saw it coming after we went camping and things didn't go very well. You see, the last night we were there he forced me to have sex when I didn't want to."
What.
Nope.
Date 32.
Date 673.
Date NEVER.
The Psychic had obviously decided that this was his "sweatpants in public" topic of choice and was going to run with it. He opened the floodgates and information that I would have deemed "information for close friends/family," kept coming out.
"Yeah, it all happened and then we broke up. But then I went and got tested and was really concerned when the test came back positive with HIV." The Psychic continued. "Turns out, they actually mixed up my test results with someone else."
"So...you don't know yet?" I said.
"They're figuring everything out and should have it back to me in a day or so. I mean, this all only happened a few weeks ago."
I could hear my own teeth grinding as I sat there listening to him. I had never met anyone before who had deemed themselves possibly HIV positive and I retreated into protection mode. All the knowledge I had learned in the two days of my high school online health class was thrown out the window and replaced by fear of the unknown.
I was a little stumped--I had no idea how to keep a conversation going. Now if I said, "Do you know what people should never wear in public? Sweatpants.", it wasn't anything compared to "My boyfriend raped me and I may or may not have HIV." So much for planning ahead.
"That...really sucks." is all I could come up with.
Not wanting to really delve deeper into The Psychic's life, I hurried back to his home to try and watch this movie and end this date. By now the pizza was cold, but I made sure to keep my hands on a piece and keep my feet pointed straight ahead as to avoid any instance of canoodling. My eyes began to wander the room: two cream colored couches, one love seat of accompanying color, two lace doilies covering two wooden coffee tables with small matching lamps (the kind whose lampshades one sees on an inebriated person's head), and short carpet that I probably wouldn't want to rub my face on. Every single item put in its specific place by a single mother and her small dogs.
The movie started and my mind was racing with the checklist of what to do next: Do I say nothing the rest of the night? Do I make small talk about the movie? What if I go to the bathroom and just never come back? What relatives do I have that could be dead soon? Despite my own prejudices of using a cellphone on a date, I pulled out mine to see what excuse I might muster up.
As I opened my phone, I saw that I had one message from my friend Grace reading: "I might call you and pretend that I need to go home and you need to go along with it."
How convenient.
"Me too." I replied
A short while later, my phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hi, mom."
So I'm her mom now.
What followed was a short conversation between Grace, her mother, and me listening blankly on the phone.
"But mom, I don't think I need to do that until tomorrow." she said, "Well, I guess if you really need me to come home now then I guess..." I couldn't help but wonder if Grace looked sincere on the other end of the line or if her expressions more closely resembled dogs when they're being punished. That would probably be good enough.
I hung up after Grace's mother decidedly told her daughter that she needed to go home. "Do you need to go home?" said The Psychic, "It's OK if you do."
This was my out. "No, I'm good; I really want to finish this movie." I said, putting on a big smile and glancing up at the screen to a bunch of weepy actors crying over who-knows-what. Hospitals and terminal illnesses, how romantic.
How long was I obligated to stay and watch a depressing movie on a first date? Considering it was a weeknight, I didn't think that I was required to really finish the movie, but at least get past the first 20 minutes.
About three pieces of cold pizza into this movie later, I decided I needed out. I also had to come up with a better escape plan than, "I need to go the bathroom for the next FOREVER." and sprint out the door. I knew I might not be the best on first dates, but I knew I was a little better than that.
I settled on the, "Gee, it's really late and I have to get up early tomorrow," excuse. Though it was easy to see through, it was more polite than setting something on fire and jumping through the window.
"Gee, it's getting late," I said as I checked my phone reading: 8:30pm, "and I have to get up early tomorrow...to swim."** The Psychic didn't put up any fight about this. I mean, first dates usually entailed some kind of physical contact and I had been about as approachable as a cockroach. Despite this, he was gentlemanly and walked me out of his house.
"Would you like any pizza to take home?" he asked as we came to the top of the landing and approached the kitchen where two pizzas still sat in their boxes, untouched and beginning to harden.
"No, I got enough...wasn't that movie depressing?"
"Yeah, I'd just been told to watch it so I thought it'd be a good choice."
I left him at the door with a small hug; his eyes at nipple level while I gave him a small pat on the back. With that, I hopped into my car and made my way back towards my house. While I drove away, I couldn't help but think if he might have seen this coming the whole time.
*You may be asking, "Ryan, why didn't you make up a new name for this kid? I mean that can't be too hard. I have twelve kids and it wasn't that hard naming them." Well, you wonderful person you, I decided not to make up a new name because the name's that I came up with weren't very fitting. His real name is the only one that feels right to me so the new label of, "The Psychic," give us the detail that we need. If you don't like that, you can go name more of your own kids.
**Throughout my high school years, I would get up at 5:30am every morning to go swimming. To accomplish this, I would go to sleep rather early. After high school though, this still became my go-to excuse when I wanted to leave somewhere at night. Sorry if you have been a victim of early morning swimming.
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