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January 13, 2009

A hypothetical situation

So let's say you started dating a dude from the former Soviet Union a few years ago. You met this dude at a Jewish singles night embarrassingly called a "Schmoozle," which you went to mostly because it had a funny name and partly because you had recently decided to find a Jewish husband. This dude was one of the only ones there who wasn't tubby and balding and who didn't have stains of his mommy's matzah ball soup down his shirt. You decided to be uncharacteristically bold and give him your number. You then promptly forgot his name and began referring to him as "No Name Steak" in the following days. Steak finally called you a handful of days later and you had a series of uneventful dates for the next two months, at which point you realized you didn't even like him all that much. You definitely weren't going to fall in love with him and get married and have lots of Jewish babylehs. So you called him up and said, "Pants out, dude," and that was that.

Since then you haven't thought all that much about him. Then, totally out of the blue, you get a call on your cell phone from an unknown number. Let's say this was yesterday, while you were at work. You took the call because you're a curious little kitty.

"Um, hi, you don't know me," the female caller says. "This is kind of weird, and you don't have to talk to me if you don't want to. I just recently broke up with [The Soviet] and I want to talk to his other girlfriends about some issues I had with him so I can get some closure."

You're intrigued. Clearly, this girl is psycho. But the part of you that used to write a dating advice column wants to help her through her issues, to throw her any bone that might be of use. You tell her you dated him for a short period of time eons ago, so you didn't know how much you'd remember, but that you'd call her that night when you weren't at work. You ask her where she got your number and she tells you he had all his exes' numbers stored in the same place.

You get home that night and call her as promised. She proceeds to go through his dating history, describing everything she knows about each of his exes. You get a little skeeved, and ask her what, exactly, she knows about you. Little psycho details creep into the conversation, like, "I was going through his texts..." "I still check his voicemail," etc. Then let's say she decides to three-way call him. In your head you know this probably isn't such a good idea, that you really shouldn't be involved in their issues. Later you'll wonder why you didn't just hang up, and that curious little kitty will snarl at you.

The Soviet answers and the girlfriend starts ripping into him about issues too intense for this humble blog. The Soviet gets angry and says this girl has taken to his car with a bat, among other things, and that he's going to call the police for a restraining order. He hangs up. It's just you and the girlfriend on the line again.

"Uhhh.... wow," you stutter, feeling like a prize idiot for calling her back in the first place. You get the feeling you may have made the matter worse for the two of them, rather than helping. You vow never to schmoozle again and go to bed.

Note: This post might be about my friend Teenuh, or maybe my friend Zeenuh, but it's definitely not about me because I don't write about personal details on this blog.

5 comments:

  1. OMFG...I totally forgot Teenuh's about Schmoozle-ing and the No Name Steak. But the most recent ex- and her shenanigans sound too hot to handle. Just wow.

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  2. That woman scares me, and I've never met her. I hope she doesn't direct her stalking efforts at you now.

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  3. How I miss the Love Doctor...a good soldier doesn't mind a bloodied field.

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  4. Um. Wow. Um, once, not long ago, I met a boy and we fell in luff. The thing is, he was in the middle of ending a relationship with a high schooler (yeah, ew, statutory rape ... but that story is for another time). His high-school-aged ex-girlf proceeded to send me pretty regular stalky, drunky, icky messages on Facebook. Then, when I blocked her, she did the same on MySpace. I deleted my MySpace. And so on, for about the whole first year of what turned out to be a two-and-a-half year relationship before she finally "moved on." I thought that was fucked up. But this story? This is about eight million times weirder, ma'am. Wow.

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