Ooops.

So I went and read a bunch of other people's blogs over the past week, and I came to the conclusion that I will never write as deep or funny posts as some of them. In an attempt to make myself feel better, I thought I'd mess around with giving the blog a makeover. Like the rejected women of dating culture, I'd just go get my blog a new haircut or new gym membership and everything would be hunky-dory.

Big oops.

Kudos to women who got their new haircuts and loved them, but this is a bit of a hack-job. I was just browsing new templates, minding my own business, and saw something that looked like a "preview" button. Intriguing, I thought. I should just test this out.

Nope. One errant click of a mouse -- poof! Old style gone forever.

I had, like, 10 minutes to try and fix it yesterday, then I had to run out the door. Unfortunately I had to leave poor bloggie with its bangs all messed up, ends chopped unevenly. I've tried to restore some semblence of style (after blogger crashed no less than three times), but, um...well, it's not what I wanted.

Sigh. You'd think blogger would have some sort of list of your past templates or something. I think I saw a "download" button that would let you keep a local copy of it on your desktop? Whatever.

Part of the problem is I don't know what I want this space to look like. Suggestions? What makes a blog look professional, readable, and intuitive?

If black smoke is pouring from your car, something's probably wrong: The perks of being a car owner

'isljg;whe .fkadjzhc  v;aoushdf;h ou!

^^That's me banging my head against the keyboard.^^

 I just can't seem to catch a break with my car. Parking tickets (some legitimate, some not), multiple trips to the DMV (I practically live there now), frantic faxes back and forth between DC and Montana involving power-of-attorney documents, even getting my car towed (FYI, not my fault)...all this makes me wonder why I have a car here in the first place.

Let me share the latest in my saga of woe.

I was driving with some friends. After about 2 minutes, my British pal Felix piped up from the backseat (please envision this with an English accent), "Aftan, is that smoke coming from your air vents?"

After my minor heart attack, I reassured him that nah, it wasn't smoke, it was a trick of the light. Of course. My car canNOT be on fire.  I kept an eye on the vents, but didn't see anything suspicious. The temperature gauge read as normal.

Then we pulled over for some coffee. "Hmmm," I said, sniffing the air. "Does anyone else smell...smoke?"

My other friend got out and made a quick inspection. "Yep," she said, "there's definitely smoke coming from the under-carriage, looks like it's concentrated near the passenger-side door." I peered over the steering wheel and saw small dark plumes wafting lazily from the hood.

My reaction:

Oh of COURSE, I thought. This just WOULD happen, because nothing with this car is ever straightforward or normal.

I sighed and pointed the car back toward home, driving nervously the whole while. I don't know much about cars, and something about smoke coming from the under-carriage makes me think the whole thing must be about to blow up.

I took my poor little beast to an autoshop the next day. They diagnosed a medium-sized, but serious, repair: apparently the rubber boot around the brake clamp had split and spewed hot oil everywhere. The smoke was the oil burning off as I drove. Not a big deal. However, in fixing this they also noticed that my brake discs were about to fail (not the brake pumps, but the discs that the pumps clamped onto...or something). If these had failed while I'd been driving, I "would have been in big trouble...it would have been bad," as the mechanic said.

So they made the repairs, and I also asked about replacing my radio, which despite four years of life support had finally died. They directed me to Best Buy for the that, which apparently does free installations once you buy the radio. Who knew?...so the people at Best Buy replaced my radio, but in the process discovered that all FOUR of my speakers had died, too.

No wonder the sound system wasn't working. Another bill later, I have a fully-functional stereo.

So the next time you see a Subaru rolling down the street, all the windows down, most likely blasting country music -- that's me, in a WORKING and SAFE (for now) car with a WORKING sound system. Hoo rah.

No, truly, despite my complaints, having a car is awesome, cuz it lets you go out of town for apple-picking and other fall excursions. But more on those fun things later.

Open letter: To the person who robbed me

Dear Thief,

I am not stupid. I know what a robber looks like, and I know what a casing for a robbery looks like. I've traveled to 10 countries in 8 months, and I know how to protect myself and my property. This ranges from observing and tracking my surroundings to being able to throw a few punches -- I took boxing lessons from a couple of hardened ex-Marines, so don't even try it.

I am not an easy target.

That said, I congratulate you on your method. Having some random guy paw through my coat and gloves (I don't keep valuables in my pockets, jackass) in order to distract me was clever: I was too busy confronting him to notice your greasy fingers slipping into my purse. By the way, you missed my cash, my iPod, my computer, and my computer cord. Actually, why didn't you snag the whole freaking wallet?

You only got two cards. Nice job, Thief.

However, you have further ruined one of my favorite coffeeshops. Caribou Coffee reminds me of home, with its rustic, warm atmosphere and wood paneling and stonework. The last time I went to this location, though, I was harassed by a homeless person and had to threaten to call the cops. This time, willing to give it another chance, all I wanted was some peace and quiet with my book and a cup of mango tea. Not only did you ruin that, but you ruined the coffeeshop. First time I go, I get harassed. Second time, I get robbed. Third time? There will be no third time.

Also, H&M? Really? You rob me and your first stop is a clothing store? (They must not have ID'd you, and trust me, I'll be speaking with them about that. The $1000+ you charged is totally their loss.) You must have really hot-footed it there -- you stole my cards, used them, I discovered the fraud and cancelled the cards all within the span of about three hours.

Quick word of advice -- next time you get twitchy fingers, target someone who's a little more flush. Don't know if you've heard, but I'm kind of a broke intern right now.

Also, don't target someone whose small-town bank knows her well and will bend over backward for her.

And finally: You better hope that I'm not as good of a researcher as I claim on my resume, because if I ever catch you then I will prosecute you to the full extent of the law. Which in DC is a fine of up to $5000 and 10 years in prison.

But I'll settle for just punching you in the face.

Sincerely,
Pissed Off Ball of Rage formerly known as Aftan

Curing Mondays, aka The Importance of Laughing at Yourself

Just a short, quick story for you...

This morning I had a serious case of the Mondays. Okay, technically it’s a Tuesday, but after a three-day weekend my first morning back at work left me feeling lethargic and depressed. (And hungry – I need to remember to eat some breakfast!)

Needless to say, I needed coffee. And not just any coffee, because let’s face it, I still can’t drink straight black coffee. No, I needed my own special blend of black drip, LOTS of half-n-half, and half a packet of hot chocolate. WHAM BAM, instant mocha.

The coffee machine is on the fourth floor. I work on the sixth floor. Normally after creating my heaven-in-a-cup, I take the elevator back to my lonely little cubicle. Not today. Today, my friend and I took the stairs.

Bad idea.

I knew it was a bad idea when someone jostled me, and a small wave of mocha crested over the cup and onto my hand. “Shoot,” I said, “I’m already spilling.” I’m kind-of clumsy that way.

“Oh,” my friend said, “maybe we should have taken the eleva – ”

And that’s when I tripped.

And spilled my entire mocha.

Onto myself. And my friend. And the floor. But mostly myself.

In front of multiple witnesses.

Oddly, this embarrassing little incident cured my case of the Mondays. Sometimes, ya just gotta laugh at yourself. I mean, what else are you gonna do when you’ve stained your favorite pair of pants and are clutching a roll of paper towels hastily cleaning up your former dream-in-a-cup whilst franticly apologizing to your friend and the witnesses? Sorry you had to see that, guys!

In other news, I got a request for a job interview. Huzzah!

Editor's Note: Just discovered I also spilled mocha onto my hair. Hair long enough to slosh mocha on = hair needing haircut.

When the doors are shut

The other day, I got stuck in an elevator.

I’m gonna make this relate to my last post, I swear.  Just bear with me.

I had been in a basement conference room of my think-tank, participating in an evening event.  I had left my bag and coat at my desk upstairs, on the 6^th floor, but had forgotten that the building closed at 7. Which means the elevators don’t work normally after 7. It was nearing 7:30.

Not a problem, I thought, I’ll just check in with the security guard in the lobby and he can help me out.

My friends clustered in the lobby, promising to wait while I retrieved my things. The security guard accompanied me back to the elevators and swiped an electronic passcode thingie (I’m sure that’s the technical term) to open the doors.

“Which floor?” he asked, as I stepped inside.

“The sixth.” He pressed the appropriate button and moved away. “Wait, don’t you have to come wi– ??” I started, concerned that my think-tank would let some random girl – who, after all, could be anybody – wander through the building after hours. What if there were state secrets just “lying around”?

Whatever, I shrugged to myself as the elevator started up.  Bing! First floor.

Then, the elevator shuddered to a halt. No happy little Bing – be happy, you reached the second floor! No doors sliding open. No nothing. Not even flickering lights – the elevator just stopped.

Ah, that awkward moment when you realize you are stuck in an elevator.

(Aside: Ok, SRSLY elevator? If you’re gonna trap me, at least make the lights flicker!)

Um, ok, I’m stuck in an elevator, I thought to myself, trying to keep calm. All right, none of the buttons are working…and mashing them over and over again doesn’t seem to change that. I looked for a handy red “EMERGENCY PULL” button. You know, something like this:

"Push to talk." Brilliant.

Did my elevator have one?

Nope.

Did my elevator have any red buttons at all?

Nope.

The closest thing my elevator had was a small yellow button that said “bell.”

(Aside: Um, yellow? Like my emergency doesn’t merit the color red?)

(Further aside: Um, “bell”?! How ‘bout “alarm” – anything that implies a bit more alacrity!)

Breathing heavily (read: angrily), I pressed the bell button. Let’s just say it didn’t have quite the “this is an emergency” tone I was looking for. It sounded like the bells in my high school that were used to signal the end of a class period.

I held that button down for at least several minutes. Did anyone come to my aid? Nope. They must have been too busy getting to third period calculus.

Okay, okay, I thought, pacing the small space (thank God I’m not claustrophobic).  What’s the Morse for SOS…is it long-short-long repeated three times, or short-long-short repeated three times? Dang it, where are all the Military Fellows when you need them!!

I tried both my Morse theories. They didn’t summon anyone.

I was ready to cry at this point, and probably not the most rational creature. Great, I’m gonna have to sleep here ALL NIGHT. Ugh, the floor is so gross! Why won’t this bloody box let me OUT!!

Then I grew calmer. Well, I’ll just pull an Arnold and pry the doors open. They do it on Star Trek all the time.

 I wedged my fingers into the door and heaved.

Fortunately, they sprang open as soon as I got them the first few inches apart. Turns out, the elevator had made it to the second floor and then just had a brain shut-down. Or something. I took the stairs back to the lobby.

The guard, and my friends, turned towards me. Thoroughly disgruntled, I explained what just happened. “Oh,” my friends said, “was that you making the bell sound?”

Yes, you idiots. Didn’t you hear the SOS? Does a bell going off in patterns at 7:30 at night sound AT ALL normal to you?

I still needed my bag, so the guard took me back to the elevator and re-swiped his card. Wait, I have to go back in there? I panicked. Then I mentally slapped myself and reminded myself I’m an adult.

This time the elevators operated without a hitch. I retrieved my bag and re-joined my friends.

As I lay in bed falling asleep that night, I remember thinking, Huh, I should turn this experience into a blog post. It could be a really cool metaphor for feeling stuck in life and not knowing how or where to move next…all the doors seem shut…you can either pry them open, or…or…

Or you can accept that some doors will remain shut.

I was recently turned down for an internship (a paid one! Huzzah!) that I really wanted.  Obviously, I’m disappointed – the experience would have really advanced my career and given me incredible opportunities.  But when God closes one door, he opens a window. Or, he opens another door. Or, he traps you in an elevator to teach you the value of sometimes clawing at closed doors until they open.

Does this mean I’m going to claw at that internship until I get it? Naw, probably not. Will I continue to claw at the job market until I find something? You betcha.

Because sleeping on the dirty floor of an elevator – aka, interning forever/remaining static/giving up and waitressing full-time – is simply not an option. And I know that someday, that door WILL spring open for me.  (Even if it takes a scary ride and an SOS to get there.)

For now, I’ve decided to remain at my current internship. For a variety of reasons, all carefully and prayerfully considered, I believe its benefits outweigh its cons.  And I believe it offers the most opportunity for an eventual job.

So where does that put me within my elevator analogy?

Psh, heck if I know. Sometimes an elevator is just an elevator.

I came home, and MY HOUSE WAS ON FIRE

Just so you know, when I say "fire," I mean it literally. This was not a "this party is so awesome, lets raise the roof [do people still say that?] and set this place on fire" type fire. Literal fire. The hot kind.

Okay, to be fair, my house wasn't exactly on fire -- that was a bit of a hook to reel you in, dear reader -- but I thought my house was on fire.

Story: After eating a scrumptious meal with out with friends (read: stuffing my face with mostly waffle fries), I was riding the bus back home. One of my best college buddies, who's in town for the week, accompanied me. As we pulled into my stop, we passed a cluster of firetrucks and policemen. Not unusual in the city -- there's always some yayhoo doin' somethin' stupid that requires firetrucks and police.

Like any good rubbernecker, I wanted the chance to shamelessly gawk without making it look like I was shamelessly gawking.  Fortunately for me the path home took me right up to the edge of the scene, so I could check things out while still being mostly out of the way.

Well, as I moved closer I discovered that my path home wasn't exactly "at the edge of the scene."


Oh, wow, these firetrucks are closer to my block than I realized, I thought, gradually transforming from trying-not-to-be-shameless gawker into concerned individual. Hmmm, they actually wrap around the corner and go onto my block...I wonder how far down the block -- OH SHIT THEY'RE ALL IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE. 


I went from concerned individual to slightly hysterical in about .3 seconds flat.

"SHIT!" I yelped, bounding forward, friend in tow. A policeman stopped us.

"Sorry, miss, but you can't go down this block."

"But that's my house!" I cried, peering around his shoulder to look at the knot of firemen on my stoop.

"I'm sorry," the officer repeated, "we can't let you go down this block. It's not safe." You must stand and watch as your life goes up in smoke.

I think I said something closely resembling "aaaarghsdnvolsnjkdhbvla!!!!" and then my friend and I moved to the other side of the street, where we had a better angle. There I finally realized -- THANK GOD -- my was house was not, in fact, on fire.

But my immediate neighbor's house was.

Or, at least, it had been. Black smoke was still flowing from the windows, which had all been smashed out by the firemen. Long ladders leaned against the brick face. The whine of a saw cutting through brick floated above the building. I could see shadows and flashlights moving around as the firemen worked inside. A bunch of them stood on my roof, another bunch on my stoop -- clearly using my place as an access point. Thus my initial and completely understandable confusion.

A little background: to be brutally honest, my neighbor's place has always been a little...janky.  (Read: sketchy. Apparently janky is a term DC-ers use.) Or as my roomie put it when I called her, "Oh, I'm not surprised it's that one." The people there have always been nice, and return my mail when the postman mis-delivers it. But...eh. The place still kinda says, There may or may not be hard drugs here. Wink. That's all I'll say for now.

So I was standing on a corner watching the place smolder, silently thinking, Oh, it *would be* that one.


"Do you know what's going on?" multiple gawkers asked us, of whom I was a little resentful at this point. Yes, I actually DO know what's going on -- see that house on fire? Yeah, I live right next door. 


Their responses, while very kind and truly concerned, usually boiled down to, OMG really?? Wow...sucks for you. Good luck with that.

(My proud moment of the evening: while I was explaining the situation to one person, another person leaned in and asked my friend, "Is she a journalist?" "An aspiring one," Friend responded. WIN.)

Seriously, though, some of these gawkers had missed the "try not to be shameless" directive -- when you pull out your Nikon camera and a digital recorder, it's time for you to leave.  Let the men do their job. Eventually a policeman found some POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape and cordoned off the block.

I called my landlord and my roommate (all of whom were safe), and then I called my parents and The Sis. And then we chatted with a fireman, were told the block would likely be inaccessible for a few more hours, and walked a block to the local bar. Aftan needed something to calm her nerves.

But our adventurous evening didn't end there. Oh no.

Stay tuned for Part II.

Something Strange Afoot

I recently went through one of the most bizarre experiences of my life. Let me give you a hint.  Watch this video at time-stamp 6:04:

"I like feet. I do not know why."

Okay, so I was coming home late one night from salsa dancing.  A guy stopped me to ask for directions to the metro. I pointed him in the right direction, but as I turned to go, he stopped me again.

"This might sound weird," he said, "but would you mind if I took a picture of your feet?"

What?  

"Ummmm," I said, looking down at my toes, thinking he must be charmed by my lime green nail polish. (You see, I had been complimented on this polish numerous times by random strangers, one gentleman on a bus even appreciating how they matched my lime green raincoat – this gentleman then asked if I was Italian, and when I said no told me I was pretty anyways.)

The problem here, though, was that my nail polish was cracked and chipped, and I had dirt scuffs on the sides and tops of my feet from salsa dancing barefoot for several hours. I definitely lacked that "fresh shower" glow, shall we say. "Ummm, sure, I guess," I acquiesced, thinking he would take a quick snap of my toes and be on his merry way.

Not so. "Okay, now would you mind if I took a shot from the side?" he asked, crouching down to the sidewalk. "And would you actually mind picking up your foot? So I could get a picture of the bottom?"

I felt my eyebrows contract. "Like, you want a picture of the sole?"  Jeez, it sounds like a bad joke...Can I get a picture of your sole? (Get it? Sole, soul? Haha....I love stupid jokes. Sorry Sis, I know you hate them, but I threw that in just for you.)  Anyways. I was a bit flabbergasted at this point, but this guy didn't seem to notice.

"What we really need is a bench for you to sit on," he said, looking around. "Then I could get all the angles I need." In his search for a bench, he failed to notice the expression on my face. I'm sure it said something like, You went from nice stranger to random crazy-pants, so I think I need to leave now.

"Yeah no benches around here," I told him flatly, turning to leave. Unfortunately, the metro directions I gave him happened to be the same direction I was going, so we had to walk in tandem for a block or so. During that time frame, he spotted a concrete stoop. 

"Oh, look! Would you mind just sitting here for a sec so I can get a really good side shot?"

"...Fine."

I took my sandals off and stretched out my feet. He asked for permission to move my toes into a more pleasing arrangement – "Some people get freaked out when I touch their feet, so I always ask first." So thoughtful, Crazy-Pants, I wonder why? 

(Honestly though, this guy was really nice. I didn't feel threatened in any way and we were in a really well-lit area with a few other people walking around. I did not feel in danger at any time.)

"Wow," he said, "your feet are really beautiful. I mean, REALLY beautiful. And they're so soft!! What do you do for them?"

"Um, nothing."  Truthfully. I have never had a manicure/pedicure in my life, and had been picking at my calluses only a few nights before. So I truly have no idea what he was talking about. But this guy was in raptures. I also couldn't help noticing that the photos he was taking were actually pretty poor shots, and as an avid photography lover and total know-it-all I was itching to give him some pointers, but there was no way under God's magnificent heavens that I was prolonging this strange event any further.

"Sorry, is this weird for you?" the guy asked as he moved to a different angle. No, I get accosted by strangers and put into impromptu foot photo shoots on random concrete steps all the time. Why would you ask such a silly question. Yes, I told him bluntly, this was VERY weird.

"Oh I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable!" I really wonder why he said that, because then he asked: "Would you mind if I stroked your feet for a moment?"

Yes I mind. 

"Well then could I kiss them really quick?"

Hell no. And I'll be leaving now. 

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable!" he repeated as I firmly pointed him in the opposite direction. Luckily, he didn't follow me home, and so I didn't have to ram my REALLY beautiful, super soft feminine dirty calloused feet-with-chipped-toenail-polish into his face.

Why do I attract the crazies? 

My feet. In all their beautiful glory. Except I'm wearing
canary yellow polish instead of lime green.

The Non-date that Was. (Or at least tried to be.)

There have been a lot of pretty cool updates in my life lately, mostly related to the job search now that my internship is almost over.  Unfortunately, those stories will have to wait so I can tell you about this other, slightly more hilarious story.  (As I’ve been promising this story to a good friend, I don’t think it’s fair to make her wait any longer.) Sorry in advance for the length of this post, but I love story-telling.

So a couple weeks ago I was at church with two friends. It was crowded, as it always is because it’s a great church, and so I scooted down my row to make room for people on the other side. I scanned the two guys I would be sitting next to: young, crew cut, muscular – definitely military.  We were fairly close to Barracks Row (where the Marine Barracks are located) so I figured these guys were Marines.  I was right, turns out.  Anyway, the guy closest to me starts chatting, and we share a few lovely minutes discovering that we have a surprising amount of things in common. 

As the church service goes on, I silently debate with myself. He’s nice. Maybe I should invite him out to coffee? I did that all the time in college, so it should be fine…it should be normal. Totally normal. Coffee: what normal people do. Would he think it’s a date? It’s not a date. I’m just being friendly. I don’t know anyone in this city, it would be nice to have a friend…Etc, etc, endless psycho-babble that girls deal with looped over and over again…

The service ended. Mr. Marine turns to me. “It was really nice to meet you!” he says warmly, and we exchange names. Let’s call him Jay.  By this point I’ve decided to go out on a limb be totally normal and invite him out to coffee.  He seems a little surprised, but suggests that we go grab some ice cream right then. 

“Sure,” I tell him, “just let me catch up with my friends and let them know.”

I hustle outside and find my two friends (who are married and have lived in DC longer than I have, and thus know way more than I do about this place) and quickly explain the situation.  “Niiiiice,” my guy friend says, giving me a high five.

“Good going,” my other friend sarcastically scolds her husband. “Jay just saw that high five.” 

Crappity crap. What to do in awkward situations? Pretend the awkwardness doesn’t exist. I meander over to Jay and his friend and smoothly invite the friend along for ice cream, too.  After all, this is not a date. This is a friendly friend-thing. I’m just trying to meet new people in DC.

“Ummmm,” Jay’s friend says, looking at me and then looking back at Jay, “yeah, actually, I have to go do that thing.”

Jay: “What thing?”

Jay’s friend: “That thing with Mike. You know, Mike. My buddy from [insert impressive military acronym here].”

Jay: “Oh, right. Okay.”

Oh, right. Okay. This situation just got a whole lot less awkward.  Ignore the awkward, I chant to myself as we pull on the door of the nearest ice cream shop.  The door was locked – apparently they don’t open til 11 on Sundays – so we turned away. Fortunately, not two seconds later a woman blew through them and hurriedly waved us inside.  “We can open early for you two!!” she gushed.  I may be imagining the gushing.

But I don’t really think so, because after we got our ice cream and after she cheerfully rang us up, she practically sang out, “Will this be on one bill?”  There may or may not have been winks involved.  

“Um, sure,” Jays says, looking at me and slowly pulling out his wallet.

I put a stop to that faster than a crazy cat lady adopts a new stray. “No, no! I can pay!” Really, people. We are friends being friendly on a strictly friendly non-date.  Geesh, can’t a guy and a girl just hang out without any strings attached? And without people assuming that strings are attached? It doesn’t have to be so stupidly complicated.

So. We eat our ice cream and walk around and chat. I finish my ice cream in about 5 minutes, given that it’s about 115 degrees outside (how I wish I were exaggerating), and we meander over to my neighborhood. Jay requests some air conditioning at this point, and I lead the way to my favorite coffeeshop, Ebenezer’s.

We grab some water, but honestly at this point I’m ready to go home. I’ve enjoyed hanging out with Jay, but I’m feeling wilted and tired, and to be honest the conversation has been a bit of a struggle. It’s just not flowing very well.  Jay remarks on my apparent exhaustion, and I use that to try to wrap things up. He offers to walk me back to my place, and I don’t really care one way or the other so I let him do what he prefers.  He prefers to walk me home. Which I think is really sweet. (And it’s broad daylight, with lots of people walking around, and he’s been a perfect gentleman thus far, and we met at CHURCH, so I’m not too worried about him being an ax-murderer or anything. Plus I don’t think he’ll remember where I live.)

I don’t want to be rude, so I invite him in for some water. (Because it’s still 115 degrees.) We’re still chatting, sitting at my kitchen table, and I’m still trying to figure out how to politely get rid of him when he says, “Oh, are these your movies?” He has spied my modest collection, which I left lying on the table earlier.  He begins flipping through them and comments on his favorites.  “A Few Good Men, that’s a good one,” Jay remarks.

“Yep, it’s my favorite. Classic. That and Hunt for Red October,”  I return.

Jay looks like Christmas has come early. “Really? That’s my favorite!” Oh dear. I can hear it coming…and I reeeeaaaallly don’t want to watch a movie with Jay. I want him to leave so I can take a nap.  But Jay is not reading my body language.  “Wanna watch a movie?” he asks.

No Jay. I don’t. Not only because I’m tired and I’m done with this coffee/ice cream/walk/thing, but I don’t have a couch.  I don’t have a TV. I just moved here, and I have nothing.  I have a futon that unfolds into a bed, but happily it is currently holding the stuff of my roommate’s friend, whos’s visiting for a while.  “Umm, gee, Jay, I don’t really have anywhere that we could watch it.”  I diplomatically and politely explain the lack-of-couch thing.

“Oh, no worries,” he says, and then he keeps talking. About what, I’m not quite sure.  I try to look like I’m paying attention, but I’m not sure how successful I am.  At one point, Jay grabs my hand and hold it within his own. Having not completely paid attention, this action startles the daylights outta me.

Holy WTF???!?! I think, and nearly snatch my hand back, but then Jay says, “That’s a really beautiful ring. Where’d you get it?” My vanity momentarily takes over, because I really do love this ring – I bought it while abroad in the Middle East, as a little token reminder of my months abroad, and I wear it all the time.  It’s pure silver, since silver is so cheap there.  But then I am freaked out again and slowly draw my hand back from his.

No worries! God gave us two hands! So Jay reaches over to grab my other hand and asks about that ring, too.  I explain the much less exotic story behind that one (my Dad bought it for me as a college graduation gift) as I try to wonder on what planet he thought it would be cool to grab my hands and continue holding them on the pretense of asking about my rings.

Jay: Wow, so that graduation ring is really beautiful…is that a pearl? It must have been really expensive.

Me (thoroughly bizarred-out by now): No, it was about 10 dollars.

At this point I need to get this man out of my house.  I strongly hint that it’s getting later in the afternoon, I’m really tired, and I still have some stuff I want to get done. He doesn’t pick up on this. I don’t know why.

“Yeah,” he stretches in his chair, “I’m really tired too…I could use a nap as well.” He looks up at me, and I think I know where this is going, but I am still in shocked disbelief so I just stand there like a little fool with her metaphoric mouth hanging open. 

“Could I just crash here?” he asks nonchalantly.  

What.the.ef.  No, Jay, you cannot “just crash here.”  In case you forgot, I just finished explaining to you how I don’t have a couch. And the futon is in use. And I just met you. AT CHURCH. You think I’m going to happily drift off to the land of sparkles and dreams while there is a strange man in my house? One who could steal all my stuff, or kill me or rape me or who knows what? (Not that I think he would do that.  I think he just wanted…I don’t know, to sleep with me? Or on the floor? My objection about the not-having-furniture thing didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest.)  Sorry, Jay.  Not even in your wildest dreams.  And if you try anything, I know how to defend myself. Because I’m from Montana, and we do justice a little differently. You are warned. (You all are warned.)

At that point I stand up and say brightly, “Well, do you want some fruit for your walk back to the Barracks? Or some water? Really, take the glass with you, no need to return it…”  Haha, no, I just offered him some fruit, which he declined.  I gave him directions back to the Barracks, and he came over to hug me goodbye.  Except it was one of those a-few-moments-too-long, hands-lingered-on-my-waist kind of hugs.  And he tried to look deep into my eyes.  I escaped, and showed him the door.

“It was really nice to meet you, A,” he said.

“Yeah, Jay, this was…interesting – I mean, it was nice to meet you too.”

I swear to you, I only wanted coffee as friends.  Given that we met at church and only knew each other for a grand total of three hours, I figured I was safe in assuming that it would be a strictly platonic, normal outing. 

But apparently Jay has a problem with the just-friends, no-strings-attached thing, too.