Kiss Dodging and other Related Tortures

Mr. Too-Nice has turned into a borderline stalker. Nothing overtly creepy, but enough to solidify my liquidy-Jello mixed feelings for him into a Pudding Pop of "Hell No."

After our friends-date he brought me a box of my favorite chocolates (See's Milk Chocolate Butterscotch). The next day I agreed to dinner after work since I was bored - big mistake. At dinner we had a great conversation (I thought) about why our past relationships didn't work; the more we talked the more it highlighted how our future goals and even relationship desires were completely different.

Too-Nice: What a beautiful warm January day - I love the desert. I don't know, I just want to find that special girl to settle down with. I hate dating, I just want to be in a relationship.

Me: Nah, I can't wait till I get back to civilized life where you're soaking wet and moldy all of the time because of the rain. Besides, dating around is fun - relationships are for suckers (yes I said this, and no I don't believe that, but I just couldn't take any more of his earnest and stupid hopeful expression).

Too-Nice: But don't you want that special someone to come home to? (Insert please-don't-stomp-on-my-heart-Lucy expression and way too much intense eye contact).

Me: Nope. (Awkwardly drink my beer) I enjoy freedom.

Did I mention he doesn't drink? Ever. Refuses to taste the stuff out of some ridiculous anti-peer pressure reason from his teen years. He's 35 years old and still afraid of peer-pressure? Here smoke this, you'll feel better.

So, feeling that we'd clearly defined our position as friends I let him walk me to my car. He grabs my hand, I snatch it back. Grabs it again, and I snatch it back again. (Yes, he is aware of my handholding issues. In summary: I hate it.) Then pulls both my hands toward him and leans in for the kiss. My future looming in his soft brown eyes like I was in a vortex and could see it all so clearly, hours holding hands on the couch, listening to his shitty country music, doing 'couples' activities with his friends, hiding my tattoos when around his mother who wouldn't approve of me anyway, thinking of Mr. Tie-Me-Up the rare times I give in and let him fuck me. In terror and feeling terrible for the immanent soul crushing, I pulled away and backed up about 2 feet.

His face dropped but, nice guy that he is, he let it go. Feeling like the biggest bitch in the world, I called my man-whore cousin Joe on the drive home, who confirmed that I was a indeed a dirty slut and would have emotionally destroyed Too-Nice, which was just what I needed to hear.

The next day Too-Nice brought me flowers at work. To apologize for pushing me.

He just doesn't get it. Somewhere there is a Y chromosome with his name on it, but damned if he's found it yet.

Fuck you, Lentils!

Damn I hate cooking.

Just spent an hour and a half banging around the kitchen throwing possibly edible combinations of stuff together. I don't believe in recipes (really, they don't exist as long as I don't look at them!) so it's always an adventure to eat what I make. A sad, sort of pathetic adventure filled with heartburn and gas.

Yeah, I hate cooking and I'm pretty bad at it. But even more than that, I hate angry cooking. Because nothing feels better than throwing an onion against the wall, stabbing some carrots, or mashing some innocent lentils as hard and fast as you can. This afternoon, I may or may not have crushed an over-ripe Roma tomato between my palms in a fit of rage.

Cooking is my grown-up tantrum.

I do tend to feel better after an hour of smashing, stabbing, and chopping, but I wonder if food absorbs the emotion you have while you are cooking. It'd be fitting if what I affectionately (passive-aggressively ?) refer to as my 'angry lentils' really are as pissed off as I am.