Miscommunication

I shall begin this blog post with a mis-claimer of sorts: Bocher #1 appears to be bi-polar, or suffering from some sort of personality disorder; therefore, what I believed to be merely an aftereffect of alcohol on our first encounter/ date, was actually one of his personalities saying hello. I shall proceed:

Date # 3 ended on an encouraging note; a night at the symphony, a nice dinner, good conversation, some foreplay, a kiss. Date # 4 began on another, on a completely different page. It started with a text, sent by me, misread by him.

Thursday evening, as I sat in my advanced workshop, critiquing essays, praising writers, I notice, yet again, a classmate, Mr. Pepperoni,( I shall refer to him as) whipped out a bag of Pepperoni and popped a single slice in his mouth. I try not to judge people’s food choices, because most would find my obsession with dried prunes to be peculiar, but I could not help but think that this was the strangest snack I had seen eaten in a school setting. Apples, granola bars, carrots, vending machine foods I understand, but bite-sized pepperoni, seems quite kooky. I had mentioned this man to Bocher # 1 on our preceding date, and he too thought it to be out of the ordinary, so, I decided to text him that Mr. Pepperoni had yet again become hungry.
‘Mr. Pepperoni has yet again taken out his bag of tasty treats. Strange, indeed.’
He texted back; ‘Eh, I’m over it. Go take a hike.’
At this point, my eyebrows cringed, and I thought, ‘What the fuck?’
I text him back: ‘Huh, what are you talking about, did I do something wrong?’
He replies: ‘Yes, you were telling me about some guy’s dick, which is highly unappealing and quite unattractive. I’m done with you.’

I firmly believe that communication is the key to any successful relationship. Text messages greatly hinder this crucial aspect. It’s impersonal and one cannot fully comprehend the message being transmitted, as is the case here. A relationship via text is doomed from the start.
I texted him back explaining my true meaning. No response. I called him apologizing for the miscommunication, again explained, and asked him to call me back. No call. I go to sleep. It was midnight, drama I do not do after this hour.

The next day, Friday, he texted me to apologize, and said that considering he had accepted my drunken booty-calls on our first day, he hoped that I too would accept his blunder. I did, but told him that his texts hurt, to which he responded with a plethora of messages. For time purposes I will jumble them into one:
‘I am very careful as to who I let into my life. I have worked very hard to be at the place I am right now and do not want to deal with anyone who might hinder this. I do not know your current situation, but hope you can understand this.’
I responded: ‘Well, I don’t want to get in the way of your life or your future.’

Throughout the day and into the evening, texts were sent back and forth. In them, he questioned my current sexual health/ whether I have a venereal disease, basically called me a nafkeh (whore). I phoned him, but he did not answer, or phone me back. He tshepen (annoyed) me, but I agreed to see him the next evening after he insisted we me to meet to discuss this face to face.

I spend Saturday writing, slightly dreading an evening with him. I’ m not one who enjoys confrontation or criticism. I choose to surround myself with positive people who uplift me, make me happy, listen to me cry, comfort me as I do, not those who make those tears fall.

We chose to meet at his condo at 7:30. I arrived, called him, to which he said happily, ‘I’ll be down in a sec.’ I waited and waited, and then waited some more. I flipped through the Anthropologie catalogue three times, and began to flip again, when finally, approximately 20 minutes later he emerged apologizing in slacks and a button down that I had not yet seen. After the flea incident, he sent his entire wardrobe to the cleaners for fear of further infestation. Luckily, he had finally received said wardrobe, comforter, and other things he had sent to be disinfected.
Weird, I think yet again.
He said I look very nice in my leggings, flowery blouse, beret and ballet flats.
‘Very Parisian.’
He mentioned earlier in the day wanting to dine at restaurant which President Obama recently took Michelle for their anniversary, Blue Duck Tavern.
‘I’m not very hungry.’ I said not wanting to sit through a whole dinner date.
‘That’s okay. We can just get drinks,’ and so we do. He asked about my writing and my progress. I related to him my current frustrations regarding my thesis and my struggle to find distance while writing about my personal life. I continued my ‘sob story’ telling him how I’m struggling to find writing time in between classes and work. To which he replied,

‘How much do you get paid at Gymboree (a kid’s gym where I teach gym and art classes)?’
$12. 50 an hour. It’s pretty shitty.’
‘I’ll pay you $100 this week to call in sick and write.’
‘No,’ I say. Bist meshugeh? (Are you crazy?) I thought. ‘That’s like prostitution.’
‘No, it’s called patronage,’ he says.
‘No. Definitely, no.’
I sat far away; distant from him, confused how he could be so polite, acting as if the texts had never been sent.
He noticed, asked me what was wrong. I told him that I thought he knew to which he responded, ‘What? But I’m your biggest fan.’
Fuck, I’m farblondzhet. (confused)

Men claim they are easy to understand. Supposedly, they ‘say what they mean.’ That is ridiculous. Their sentences are mired in many meanings, and at the moment, I understand none of his.

I bring up the texts, and the discussion began. He let me know that at my age (he is 29, I am 25) he was doing a lot of crazy things, still in L.A. (he went to USC film school here), didn’t really know where his life was headed. He’d been through a lot, but at this moment he finally knew where he was headed, hence, he was hesitant when letting others in.
I assumed he was over the whole drunk-dial thing, considering he had asked me on a second date, never mentioned it, asked me on a third, then on a fourth. I was wrong.
After letting me in on his life story, he wanted to know if I was done with Mr. Booty call. He then revealed that if we continued to see one another I would be, because he did not want to get a venereal disease or AIDS.
What the fuck?
I asked him, ‘Are you asking me to only date you, to be exclusive?’
He said, ‘yes,’ and I agreed, thinking about how communicating with him was at times completely confusing.

The date continued and we both ordered a second drink. He ordered a third, I stopped at two, he continued on to four. Four vodka cranberries into the conversation and I could tell he was slightly tipsy, or drunk, and the conversation had become continuously more erratic. He finally asked for the bill, and I glanced to it, wanting to pay. It was over $150 dollars. I put my wallet away. I tell him I would like to do something nice for him, and he told me that spending time with him is enough. He’s ongetrunken.(drunk)

We walked back to his condo and I agreed to come up. He wanted to show me the horse-races he had been betting on while online. He asked me to pick a horse. I declined, but after much insistence agreed to spend money frivolously.

I told him I’m going to use the restroom. When I returned, I noticed that many of the top buttons on his shirt have magically come undone. No longer do a few chest hairs peek out from his shirt; instead, I now saw a small forest.
Fantastic.

I let him know that I was oysgehorevet (exhausted) and should get home. He asked me to stay. I declined, saying, ‘another time.’ Hand in hand we walked to my car, and kissed goodnight. I promised to text him when I’ve made it home.
I did.
He responded. ‘My chest, her head.’
'Huh,?'
I do not respond, and went to sleep baffled.