You're a big pickle.

I'm pretty aggressive. Not just in a physical, rub me down with oil and let's start wrestling kind of way, but also in my mannerisms, attitude, and general personality. I'm almost always assertive, bold, and extremely outgoing. Some men love it. Some men wish they'd never met me.

Gerkin was always afraid of me. I think, deep down, he wanted to see if he was man enough to handle me. He would always make comments about how tough I was, how he was afraid I'd kick him, or that he was scared of me. I thought it was cute; how meek and vulnerable that Gerkin was.

When Gerkin looked at me, he saw Xena Warrior Princess of Doom. When I looked at Gerkin, I saw a baby bird, waiting for it's mother to spit chewed up worms into his mouth. But I guess what they say is true - opposites attract.

When Gerkin and I hung out, it usually involved food. I tried to get him to do other things. I'd ask if he wanted to bowl, maybe shoot some pool, even pretend we know how to play darts ... he just wanted to take me to dinner. I think he was afraid I'd beat him at anything other than eating.

One day, Gerkin decided he would pick me up from work on my lunch break. He had brought sandwiches. We drove to a little park off the shores to enjoy the cute little lunch my Gerkin had made. With our sandwiches, Gerkin packed us a pickle each. The kind of pickles you buy at a baseball game, on the Eastside, on a hot day. The kind, so big, that the pickle itself becomes a meal.


Words of Advice: Don't image search for "Giant Pickle" ... just trust me. It's scary.

I take one of the two giant pickles and if my memory serves me right, I may have said something about my pickle being bigger than his. I'm not sure what he heard, or how he could have misinterpreted what I said, but Gerkin looked at me really confused. Then looked at his crotch. Then looked at my pickle. Then he spoke. "No, my pickle is definitely bigger."

Now, when looking at the two actual green pickles, that we were to eat, mine was bigger. When he said that his personal, hopefully not green, man-pickle was bigger, I was scared. I mean, who says that at lunch?!?! I'm trying to eat my sandwich, thank you.

I try not to laugh, throw up, or make any kind of facial expression that would let Gerkin know that he was weird. I continue to eat my sandwich because a.) I was starving b.) he made a pretty awesome sandwich and c.) the last thing I wanted to talk about while eating a real pickle, was his man-pickle.

We finished our lunch and I noticed that Gerkin never ate his pickle. Weird.

We get into his car and he reaches into the back seat, grabs the left over pickle, and says "You may think your pickle is bigger, but mine definitely wins." He then, grabbed his man-pickle, to compare to the green pickle, he was supposed to eat for lunch. AWKWARD.

I glanced only because it was the polite thing to do. I mean, if I didn't look, what if he pickle slapped me? I was scared. I just wanted to get away from Gerkin and his pickles. Clearly, this was a pissing contest. Just because I made one tiny comment, he felt the need to overcompensate, prove his manliness, and compare himself to a vegetable. After feeding me one.

I tell Gerkin he's right. His man pickle wins. Mine was a stupid pickle. My pickle was a mini dill pickle in comparison. Mine would be tossed out of the assembly line because it's a defected, too small, unwanted pickle. My pickle was so small, that I never had a pickle to begin with. He smiled, put both pickles away, and drove me back to work.

I have yet to eat a giant pickle since.

Lesson Learned:

If a man needs to prove to you that he's a man, he's not a man. He's just a pickle.

Rolaids Spells Relief

Allow me to paint a picture for you... I put on a tight black dress, cheetah print stilettos, straighten my hair, put on red lipstick and admire myself in the mirror, 20 minutes too long. I had a hot date. When I say hot, I'm talking jabenero hot. Muy caliente, super spicy, some kind of fiery gift sent directly from God, kind of hot.

I had never before dated a Cuban man. Pepino made me feel amazing. He made me feel like the most beautiful girl in the room. He always knew what to say and what to do to drive me wild. Pepino was trouble.

I had taken the day off of work to get ready for this date. I was a little nervous, but super excited. He was taking me salsa dancing. The only salsa I knew was the kind that comes in a jar. But, I was excited to try. I'm Middle Eastern. I was born to shake my hips, gyrate to loud music, while shrieking LELELELLE but I knew this was a different kind of dance. My belly dancing skills were not going to help me this time.

Looking my best, feeling nervous and excited, I waited for Pepino. He was 20 minutes late which balanced my 20 minutes of unnecessary self admiration. Pepino rings my doorbell, I take a deep breath, and I'm officially ready to dance. The dance of love. With my sweet Pepino.

He takes me to a restaurant that has a dance studio upstairs. We eat dinner, have a glass of wine, and before I know it, it's time to show him what I'm made of. Pepino excuses himself, goes to the restroom, and I walk upstairs to check out the scene.

The dance floor seems huge. There are mirrors everywhere. There is no place to hide. I strike up a conversation with the instructors telling them it's my first time. I tell them that my date, Pepino, is downstairs, but he's been here before and loves to dance. They know of the Pepino I speak of. They love Pepino. I just might also love Pepino. What a coincidence.

The class is about to begin and my Pepino is still no where to be found. One of the men in the class tells his chica that he's going to run to the bathroom and I ask him to check on my Pepino (Most men have heart attacks on the shitter, I was just being cautious!) After a few minutes, the man returns, without Pepino.

Me: "Was Pepino down there?"
Man: "Yes, but I think he's throwing up!"

I run downstairs and don't think twice about walking into the men's bathrooms. It's not my first time in one (Hey, the lines get really long for the women's bathroom, don't judge me). I hear someone puking their brains out. Poor Pepino, he must be really sick.

Me: "Pepino, do you need anything? Are you ok??"
Pepino: "Oh, I'm fine. I'll be done in a second. Don't worry"

I fetch my Pepino some water and by the time I return, he's washing his face. I try to talk him out of dancing. I don't want him to put up a front if he doesn't feel well. I instantly went from hot date, to persistent nurse when I saw how flushed my Pepino looked.

He promised me he was fine. He must have ate something bad. He wasn't going to let it ruin our night. What a trooper. We went upstairs to join the class. We dance. And you know what? I wasn't half bad. I doubt I'd win Dancing With The Stars, but there were people worse than me. Pepino was patient, he didn't get frustrated when I forgot the steps, went the wrong way, stepped on his foot, etc etc etc. He kept his hand on the small of my back, always kept me close, and for a while, I forgot that he had just puked his life away.

After the class ends, we thank the instructors, and Pepino goes to fetch our coats. Then, one of the instructors takes me to the side. Awkward. I must have been pretty bad if she wants to tell me something in private.

She leans in close and says "Pepino is bulimic. He always throws up dinner before dancing. That's why he was down there. I just thought you should know.

What is she talking about? This tall, handsome, extremely sensual, totally delicious man cannot be bulimic. It just cant be true.

We weren't even in the car for a few minutes before I question my fiery Pepino. I try not to be blunt, I want to be gentle since it's a sensitive subject, but if you know me, you know it's impossible for me to do such a thing.

Me: "Pepino... were you puking because you're bulimic?"
Pepino: "Why would you ask me that?"
Me: "The instructor pulled me aside to tell me. It's ok if you are, you don't have to be ashamed."
Pepino: "It's none of your business."

Uh oh, angry Pepino. The rest of the ride home is silent. We get to my house. I take my tight-black-dress wearing self to the front door, alone, as he drives off. A few days later, I call Pepino. No answer. What a rude bulimic.

About a week later, I get this email:

Dear Michelle,

I'm sorry I was not able to answer your question in the car. Yes, I have a problem. I hope that doesn't change how you feel about me. I'm sorry."

I respond:

Dear Pepino,

I really liked you before the instructor told me. It came as a surprise, but I was willing to work through it, with you, if you wanted to. I did not, however, like that you were a rude monkey. I cant date a man whose breath smells like puke. Nor can I, a woman who eats really well, date a man who cannot eat without puking. It's too bad cuz you were hot. Happy Purging."

Lesson Learned:

Spicy men may be hot, but they may cause upset-stomach, indigestion, diarrhea, etc. Always carry Pepto, Rolaids, or Milk of Magnisia with you. It will come in handy.

You Oughtta Know!

After sharing a few of my dates with ya'll, I find myself explaining how I met these men, time and time again.

Basically, I'm a pervert. I have no shame, no conscience, and I see no wrong in walking up to a man and telling him that I'd like to see his pants on the floor in my bedroom.

I don't advise everyone to use my techniques. To be so honest, crass, and forward can only be pulled off by someone extremely confident. The weak at heart and insecure need not try.

"How, Meesh, HOW is it possible for you to walk up to a man and say such things?" I honestly don't fear rejection. What's the worst a man can say? "No?" Or "Get away from me you hairy banshee?" I've heard worse things in my life. Rejection does not scare me, it motivates me. It makes me think of better pick up lines in the middle of the night, it makes me walk up to more attractive men, and it gives me the gusto needed to pull off my amazing pick up lines.

So, next time you find yourself admiring a man from afar, feel free to use one of my many ingenious lines...

- Hi. I like your face. It suits your sexy bodyyyyyy.
- Hey Baby, Do you like changing diapers? Cuz I wanna give you a child!
- I think I've seen you before. Oh! That's right, you look just like the guy I fantasize about when my boyfriend kisses me.
- Don't think I didn't notice what you just did. Stop undressing me with your eyes or I'm going to have to charge you.
- Wait a minute, wait a minute, WAIT ONE MINUTE MISTER.... did you just pelvic thrust at me? No? Oh, just wishful thinking on my part.
- I think you're delicious. Prove me wrong.
- Your smile makes me want to rip my clothes off. There you go smiling again. Oops, there goes my shirt.

For the less brave:

- Hi.

But in all seriousness, the key to meeting men and going on multiple bad dates is to be captivating. No man I've ever gone on a date with will forget me. I know what you're thinking, it's those beautiful Persian eyes, the badonk-a-donk that makes most men cry, but no. The fact is, I'm not afraid of what he thinks. I know what I have to offer, I know what I'm worth, and if I want a man, I'll get it. If the dates are bad, I'll blog about it.

The Run-&-Jump

The Run-&-Jump is a test. A test not just of a man's physical ability, but a test of just how much he likes me.

The Run-&-Jump (n): Running full speed towards a man and jumping on him like a spider monkey, praying he successfully catches you.

An example of a successful Run-&-Jump

Think about it... If a man likes you, he would catch you, spin you around, and it would feel like a choreographed dance move, or a scene out of a movie. If a man doesn't like you, he may move out of the way, drop you, yell at you after he catches you ... the possibilities are endless.

I have used the Run-&-Jump test on many men. I only give the test to those that I know can withstand the force of my spider monkey jump. I would never attempt to jump on someone who didn't look like they could catch me. I'm not that crazy. Most of the tested men have been successful. Some have yelled at me, called me crazy, run away screaming ... but there was only one who dropped me.

Butterfinger was a trained MMA fighter, he had the sweetest smile, and knew how to be aggressive in a gentle kind of way. He was Italian, had green eyes, and every time I saw him, a part of me wanted to rip my clothes off... But I feared being arrested, so I stayed calm. At all times.

Buterfinger and I would spend hours just driving round. That was our thing. We both loved to take road trips, turn up the radio, roll down the windows, and drive fast to nowhere. We would talk about almost anything on those road trips. I always had a blast when I was with him.

One night, Butterfinger picked me up and said we were going to Berkeley. We were going to watch a meteor shower. How romantic. My sweet Butterfinger and I, watching meteors light up the nights sky, on top of some hill, far far away. I couldn't wait to get there.

The drive there was scary. I watched Butterfinger as he drove. He was so focused. So attentive to the road. He took each turn carefully, but he wasn't afraid. The moon reflecting off his chiseled face, his big strong hands griping the wheel ... I must be the luckiest girl alive.

We get to the top of the mountain and its breathtaking. I had never been so far from the city lights before. The stars were so clear, so bright. It felt as though I could reach out and grab one. We got out of the car, bundled up in blankets, and waited for the meteor shower to begin. We were the only two people up on the mountain. Typically, two people, on the top of a dark mountain, with blankets, end up keeping warm in creative ways. Not us.

I challenged Butterfinger to the Run-&-Jump. This was his test. If he passed, I would feel comfortable ripping my clothes off every time I saw him. He chuckled, calling me silly. I assured him that I was serious.

I take position.

I begin to charge.

I jump.

SPIDER MONKEY ARMS ARE WIDE OPEN, I felt as though I was flying through the air, waiting for my sweet Butterfinger to catch me.

It all happened so fast. One moment, I'm running full speed at him, the next, I'm on the ground, face down.

DID HE JUST DROP ME??? I had never been dropped. I was a good judge of strength and never would have guessed that he, of all people, would drop me. I laid there for a few moments before moving. The shock was too great.

I hear, what sounds like, laughter. He better not be laughing right now. Oh, but he is. He's hysterically laughing. He thinks this is the funniest thing ever. I cant stand him. He dropped me. He's laughing. I hope he chokes on his saliva.

Through his hysterical laughter, Butterfinger is trying to speak. "That was so funny. Why would you do that? I didn't think you'd actually jump on me!" So, after dropping me, and laughing, you doubt me? This is SO over.

Butterfinger didn't pass the test. Butterfinger never got to see me rip my clothes off. Sadly, that was the last road trip we ever took.

Lesson Learned:

When testing a man, make sure to wear protection: knee pads, elbow pads, and a helmet.

It's not delivery, It's Digiorno!

I think everyone one has, at one point in their life, met someone they have an undeniable connection with. Someone who immediately understands you, makes you feel exceptionally comfortable, and makes you wonder how you ever got through life without them.

Pearl and I must have been married in a past life. We knew each other inside and out, before we knew each others last names. He almost instantly became one of the best guy friends I've ever had. I called him when I needed advice, a shoulder to cry on, or when I had great news because I knew there was no one else that would be as excited for me as he would. He, however, wanted more than I was ready to give. He basically had our entire lives planned out, including what we would name our first born, where we would live, and how he would he would wake up every morning proud to be my man.

Pearl was a chef. An amazing chef. He was so worldly, knew of cultures that I had never heard of, always treated me with the utmost respect, and honestly, to this day, I haven't met anyone quite like him. After college, I moved from the city back to San Jose. Our friendship/relationship changed drastically. We rarely saw each other, but we spoke to each other almost every night. As time went by, the nightly phone calls turned into yearly check-ins.

The last time I spoke with Pearl, he told me of the amazing new restaurant he was working at. He invited my girls and I up for dinner. I was excited to see him. I gathered my two closest friends and drove an hour, in the rain, to see him. We sat at the bar, and as luck would have it, we sat next to the executive chef, who was enjoying a beer. For whatever reason, chefs love me. It could be that they're passionate about cooking and they can instantly tell that I'm very passionate about eating - its love at first sight, more often than not.

The executive chef instantly fell for my charm. He spoiled us with the best things at the restaurant and endless drinks, all the while, Pearl kept an eye on me from afar. By the time the restaurant closed, the executive chef, Pearl, the sous chef, and us 3 girls remained. We decided to move our party to a bar around the corner. After a few more drinks, the girls and I decide that we're hungry. Again (don't judge me, I'm really good at eating). Good thing we were surrounded by 3 chefs.

You'd think that the executive chef, at a 5 star restaurant, would have a fridge stocked with things us mere peasants could only dream of. But no. He pulled out a frozen pizza. Digiorno. We watched tv, sat around talking, and before we knew it, it was 4 am. Thankfully, the rain had let up, so I rounded the girls up to go home. The guys drove us back to where I had parked my car, only to see that the garage was closed, the gate was locked, and we were stuck.

3 girls, 3 boys, this was a recipie for disaster. The executive chef insisted that we stay at his place while we wait for the garage to open. My friends and I made a pact; we would all sleep next to each other, arm in arm, so that if anyone were to even breathe on one of us, we could attack, fight to the death, and hopefully make it out alive. I knew that Pearl would never get me into a sticky situation, and after talking to him about it, he reassured me that we'd be fine. He'd stay up just to make sure we were safe.

Pearl and I spent the next few hours, waiting for the sun to rise and catching up on all that had changed since the last time we had seen each other. Those few hours only felt like minutes and before we knew it, the sun was shining, and it was time for us to leave. I wake the girls and we begin what ends up being the longest walk of shame ever.

Walk of Shame (n): When you leave someone's house with the same clothes you had on the night before.

We didn't want to wake the other chefs, so we had to walk about a mile in our cute outfits and heels to the parking garage. We giggled the entire way, making fun of ourselves during what probably looked like, to others, as a walk of shame. Little did they know that all we did last night was eat 5-star Digiorno pizza.

We finally make it to the garage. We're exhausted, cold and ready to get into the car to make the dive home. But of course ... the garage was still closed. I called Pearl repeaditly but he never answered. The man that had always been there for me whenever I was in trouble, was asleep. He was snoring while we shivered and waited hopelessly for someone to open the gate. While he was sound asleep, people taking their morning strolls, judged us with their judging eyes. How rude.

Lesson Learned:

No matter how good the food is, catching up with long lost friends / lovers is best done at home, in bed, where the walk of shame is limited, your car is safe, and your pride is still intact.