The Semi-Private Life: What it means when guys say they hate the social network

“I’m a private person.”

This was the response I received from a dude I dated two years ago when I asked why he didn’t have a social networking page. He went on to explain how, because of his job, he needed to keep a low profile and how anyone can find out anything from someone’s online networking page. I didn’t think that people were stupid enough to put out any information that could potentially be harmful to themselves or anyone else. Okay, I’ll bite. Until he kept it going, including how much he hated social networking sites, just hated them. 

Red flag.

But, I thought he was cute ( my girl friend assured me he really wasn't) and I was going through a “desperation” phase in my dating practices where I’d lowered my standards to include guys who were obviously shady. Meaning, rarely did we go out in public, no PDA, I paid for myself and although there were a lot of plans made, none of them happened.  Don’t look at me like that we’ve all done it, some of us more than once. Anyway, I continued to see this guy for about two months before I found out why he didn’t like the social networking scene.

One night, a friend took photos of the guy and I together. I posted the picture up as my profile photo on my Facebook page. Why not? I looked good in the picture and that almost never happens. When I told him about it, he seemed nervous and that attitude should have prepared me for what came next.

His wife messaged me online and asked me why I had a photo of her husband and me on my page. Well that would explain why he didn’t have an online presence: much harder to creep on your wife that way. It didn’t stop at his wife, though. A few other girls also wrote me on Facebook to ask if he and I were dating because he was ‘dating’ them, too.

“No, ladies, he was a mistake that apparently his wife and I have in common.”

It happened one other time with another married guy who decided he not only hated the Internet, but all technology except television and automobiles. His wife hacked his e-mail and called me at work. She and her three kids lived in another state while her husband was training in my town. The difference with this one is that we had already broken up months before when he met me for coffee and introduced me to the girl he was cheating on me with. Yes, that happened. She did have a Facebook and a Myspace and wrote me from both.

Moral of the story, you ask? Anyone who hates social networking or technology in general probably has a shady reason for why they feel that way. Whether they are married, have a boyfriend/girlfriend or just play the field, having a presence on a social network makes your world smaller and increases the chances of being busted. Think about it, at some point, friend lists cross over and before you know it, there are less than six degrees of separation between one person to the next. It’s much harder to be an anonymous douche bag when someone knows someone who knows someone who might know you.

That means, the chick who has say … over 2,000 friends will probably have at least three of the girls any particular guy is playing. In other words, if a guy wants to pretend to date me while hooking up with other girls, at some point his photo or mention of his name will appear on my social page. It pops up in the network feed, those girls will see it and BAM, busted. Works with chicks, too. I’ve seen girls get tagged in photos depicting them in compromising situations with dudes that were not their boyfriend – on a night they were supposedly staying in because they were sick. Busted.

With so many people making a presence for themselves on various Internet social scenes, it’s getting hard to deny relationship status and hide creeper activities. Facebook, Twitter and MySpace has brought out the narcissist in society, so updates, blogs and notes are illustrated with photo proof. No denying what or who you did the night before. I call these sites ‘stalker friendly.’ Suspicious? It’s just as telling as going through a person’s phone. Google their name and if they are tagged in a photo on any site, their picture will pop up, even if they don’t have a page.

It’s weird for someone to not have a page online. But, I will acknowledge that there are those who just don’t have the time to waste online because they have busy, real world lives interacting with actual human beings and going to a non-virtual café to hang out with folks and not instant message them.  The social network should be a supplement to real life relationships and friendships; proof that you are married/hooked up, are well liked (evidenced by a growing friend list) and are having a good time. Instead, it’s a place feared by cheaters and loved by stalkers.

For me, it’s a place where I find out the men I’m dating are married.

Creeper

A few nights ago, I went to Barnes and Noble in my new town. It’s wonderful here because there are more than four tables backed against one wall with only three outlets to plug in electronic devices. Maybe that’s because the concept of hanging out at a bookstore to go online hasn’t caught on in these here parts yet.  It was fairly empty that particular evening so there were a lot of places for people to sit. So, why an older, Hispanic gentleman chose the table right in front of mine to sit was a little confusing.

Within a few minutes, it became clear why he chose that table out of all the others. Although he was holding onto a magazine as if he were reading it, every time I glanced up, I caught him staring at me. Not only that, it looked like he was rolling his tongue around in his mouth as he rubbed one leg with his free hand (not THAT leg, his actual leg). After what seemed like too long, I got up to leave. But I decided to give Mr. Creeper a little advice on how to do it the right way.

“Do you speak English?”

“Yes, I do, I-“

“Let me give you some advice: if you’re gonna stare at someone, do it right. Sit where you won’t be noticed, be sure to glance at your reading material a few times and for Pete’s sake, stop sucking your tongue and rubbing your leg. It makes you look like a creeper.”

The look on his face was priceless and I felt bad as I walked out of the bookstore. Maybe I was too mean. It was possible he had lazy eyes and he had to look straight ahead to see the magazine he was holding above his lap. Then I started thinking my ego was perhaps bigger than it should be and made a mental note to myself: thou shalt not assume it’s all about you. I felt better.

Two days later, on a Saturday, I decide to hang out at the bookstore again. There were plenty of tables, but I decided to sit in one of their plush two-chair stations with my laptop, coffee and bagel. I pulled the little corner table that was between the chairs close to me and set my coffee, bagel and keys on it as I settled into writer mode. It wasn’t too crowded today and as I scanned the crowd, I noticed the older Hispanic gentleman had just walked in. We made brief, one second eye contact. Oh, boy. I was probably going to have to apologize.

Not so fast. Ten minutes later, he plopped into the other plush chair at my station with a magazine and a big book. He reached all the way over to the corner table I had pulled close to me and placed his coffee on it. Then, he settled into his chair and pretended to read. I say he pretended, not because it was highly unlikely that he would be interested in the “Law of Power,” but more because in the ten minutes he sat there, he didn’t turn a single page.

Okay, so maybe he was perving out when it came to me, because there were two other plush chairs behind him that were unoccupied, yet he chose the one in front of me. Well, at least he wasn’t rolling his tongue in his mouth or rubbing his leg and I didn’t catch him staring at me once. It was still a weird feeling to be that close to someone that was obviously creeping me. So, when my friend called and said she was heading over to meet up with me, I very quickly moved my stuff to a table for two, leaving Mr. Creepy Castro to his one page in a book.

However, it wasn’t a few minutes later that I noticed Mr. Creepy Castro had moved himself to a table not far from me. He was ‘reading’ “Gun” magazine from the side of his face, because his eyes were fixed on my table. He was doing the tongue and leg trick. Should I explain to him that he was still being way obvious about his Pervidiculous tendencies and that there was not enough distance between us for me not to notice?

Nope, think I’ll sit here and write about it …

 

Technology Operator FAIL

When I was looking for an apartment, I wanted it to be a gated community with all the bells and whistles I could afford. That's just what I found. The apartment complex where I live is clean, quaint, has a workout and laundry room,  and a swimming pool with a fountain in the middle. It also came with an access card to get inside the gate to the complex. How high speed. Unfortunately, I didn't listen to the instructions on how to use it, only where it was suggested I store it - in the sun visor above the steering wheel.

For the first few days I was there, the gate was left open because of routine maintenance so I didn't need to use the card to get in. However, the first night the gate was working, I sat outside the gate for what seemed like an eternity, waiting for it to open. It didn't. So, I started waving my access card around furiously, hoping the invisible magnetic beams would pick up my card's security code and let me in. The gate opened. Wow, I thought to myself, that's gonna be a bitch every time I try to go home.

Well, the next night it was the same and so on until the weekend. It was a Saturday night and I had just come back from treating myself to a movie, it was late and I was tired. Like before, I sat in front of the gate and waved the card around, waiting for it to open. It was taking longer than usual, so I got out of the car and walked up to the rolling mechanism, where I was certain the magnetic reader was, and stuck my card on it. Nothing.

This wasn't good. The office was closed and I'm stuck outside the gate with no way to get in.I dialed the emergency number to the apartment complex, left a frantic message and waited for a return call.

"Ma'am!" a woman's voice called to me from behind my car.

I turned and looked at a woman who seemed to be holding back laughter. She was leaning out of her car about 10 feet behind me. Obviously, she had witnessed my attempts at trying to get my card to open the gate.

"Ma'am, you have to put your card on this thing right here for the gate to open," she explained, pointing to an access card reader, before getting back inside her car.

Oh.

There were never any invisible, high speed, magnetic beams. Turned out, every other time I had probably been let in by someone behind me.  How many of my neighbors got a laugh out of watching me wave my arms around in my car like the Wizard of Oz trying to make the gate open by summoning science-fictitious beams that didn't exist?

Fail.

Happy Feet: My pedicure story

Pedicures are an unnecessary luxury I thought I would never waste my time or money on. I don’t like people touching my feet, much less massaging them and giving them facials. It just seemed pointless to pamper a part of my body most people will never pay attention to or see – unless they have a fetish or check out my shoes. Why should I get a pedicure?

Because I have ugly feet.

It didn't matter to me as I could mask the imperfections with lotion and polish. It worked until a few weeks ago, when I received a gift basket (from my boyfriend) with foot spa stuff which included a stone, scrubby-thingy on a paddle. I’m honestly not sure if it was a hint, but I decided to treat myself to a 'do it yourself' pedicure. How hard could it be? Turns out, it's pretty hard if you don't know what you're doing. I ended up making my foot situation even worse – rendering me to require professional help.

Enter Salon Nails in the food court of the mall: a very ghetto-posh, Asian run, mini-spa that can take care of all your grooming needs from brow shaping to nails and feet. It was there I was introduced to Jason*. Jason is a talented nail and foot technician and a man of few words – in English. However, he took one look at my feet, one at my face, and again at my feet and shook his head.

“You a pretty girl, but you feet is all jacked up.”

I know this, Jason, that’s why I’m here.

“I do my best. You have boyfriend?”

Why yes, I do. *blush*

“How you boyfriend still around wit you feet like dat?”

Jason has a sense of humor, not unlike Dat Phan from Last Comic Standing. It's good that I can laugh at myself.

“Alright, what spa-pedicure package would you like?”

There were three different pedicure packages priced as follows:

$20 – for pretty feet that just want to be cleaned up.

$25 – for feet that might need more attention.

$35 – for my feet. This was the all-out, exfoliating, skin softening, toe-nail clipping and filing, total feet reconstruction package.

After looking at the price list, and mentally calculating available funds, I asked for the $20 treatment. Jason, who had been examining my feet to survey the extent of work that would be needed, looked up at me over the rim of his reading glasses while rolling up my pant legs and placing my feet in the spa water.

“You sure ‘bout dat? You have all dis hard skin and cuticle that need to come off. The 20 dollar package only inlcude basic wash, trim and polish. I thought you want you feet fixed.”

Okay … then the $25.

Jason raised his eyebrows.

Alright, fine, the $35 package. You better make my feet look like foot models, Jason.

“Good choice, now maybe you have chance to keep boyfriend.”

He’s a funny guy.

Jason proceeded to apply some kind of spa stuff to my feet, one at a time and scrubbed them until it tickled and I had to jerk my feet away from him. Then he produced a utensil that looked to be a cross between a spoon, a bottle opener and a cheese grater – and went after the calloused skin on the bottom of my feet. Get it, Jason! This probably took the longest and included periodic glances up at me so he could give me the “this is what happen when you not take care of you feet” look. When he was done skinning my feet, he masked my legs, soaked my feet in hot wax and then painted my toenails red.

“It’s a pretty color, you boyfriend like.”

I’m not going to lie, my feet looked amazing when Jason finished his artful restoration of skin and toenails. They were smooth and shiny and soft and pink and – I was wondering if they did full body treatments. Jason seemed impressed with his own work. He even smiled at me.

Then it was like something occurred to Jason.

“Let me see you finger nails.”

I didn’t want to, I could tell I wasn’t going to get out of there without getting a manicure.

“Tsk. Come sit in chair, I give you full set, 19 dollar.”

But I don’t really want long nails, I have to typ-

“You gonna lose you boyfriend if you not take care of you hand and feet. I do manicure free wit full set.”

How can I argue with free. According to Jason, men like well groomed women and even though I clean up well, the day to day of being me doesn’t include a lot of time to make sure I look like a model. Maybe with fancy feet and nails, I can at least look like I put in more of an effort than I actually do.

So, I let Jason give me porn star nails at a working class length. When I left the salon two hours after I got there, I had perfect hands and feet. My hair and eyebrows were pretty jacked, but those would have to wait for another day. Although I love the superficial upgrades to my extremities, I am not sure I can affored the rdent in my bank account on a regular.

*name changed, however I am sure his name wasn't Jason when he entered the United States.

Tilted Kilt = Irish Hooters

Hooters has a reputation for employing pretty waitresses to wear outfits that accentuate curves and cleavage. When someone goes to Hooters, they go for the view, not the food. Because, let’s be honest, aside from the buffalo shrimp, their menu isn’t really a draw. However, pretty girls in 80s slouch socks, 70s nylon/spandex shorts and super low, cleavage bearing, wife-beater tanks are the new sexy – if you’re a guy with a taste for the disco era. It was a pretty unique market until the Irish decided to one-up them: introducing The Tilted Kilt.

When a friend and I agreed to meet for dinner at The Tilted Kilt, neither one of us had a clue what this restaurant was about. It didn’t take long after being seated to notice the place was filled with a lot of men. There were only a few girls and they seemed to be attached to dudes. My friend and I were definitely the only two girls sitting together at the same table. We soon found out why the place was overrun with testosterone: the waitresses were wearing what can only be described as an outfit I saw at a gentleman’s club once. Lots of skin and cleavage, nothing left to the imagination – and they all had great bodies.

So, now that the mystery of why mostly men were to be found in the establishment was solved, it was time to order our food. I’m not gonna lie, I found it hard to be hungry when there were that many perfect bodies parading around me, including our waitress, making me so much more conscious of the fact that I had not worked out in a very long time. That said, while my friend decided on the healthy chicken club, I ordered a sloppy Jane and fries, all the while taking note of how the waitresses looked like they probably didn’t eat … at all.

It was a little disappointing to find out that the food wasn’t really worth the money. I envisioned the sloppy Jane being much like a Sloppy Joe, and I love me a good Sloppy Joe. But it was more like a steak-um and cheese sandwich with slaw. It was kind of like the first time I ordered wings at Hooters and realized they were no better than anywhere else; it’s just that you get a more interesting view while eating. Which is the same concept at The Tilted Kilt: stun ‘em with skin, keep ‘em coming in. No pun intended, folks.

But even though I did not like the sloppy Jane, the service was quick and courteous enough for me to almost forget how much I did not resemble these young, barely dressed, cleavage-bearing, fantasy girls serving up more than just food and spirits; but not enough to order dessert. So, when our waitress asked if I would like to add a half pound of chocolate flavored cellulite to my bill, I declined with the slightest of once-overs to my less than perfect midsection and asked for the bill. Then I wondered, if she had looked like me, would I have been more inclined to order a treat? Probably not, considering I didn’t really need a reminder of how much cardio and total body sculpting I owed myself.

While The Tilted Kilt took my self-image back down to a manageable level, I made a few mental notes for future reference:

- I need to get an outfit like that.

- This is not a place to take your boyfriend, date or husband – unless you just wanna start a fight.

- My daughter will never work at The Tilted Kilt.

- Or Hooters.

- I need to encourage a restaurant for women where men get to wear a hot outfit. Because when a man offers a chick dessert, we don’t feel like he is calling us fat.

Not that this is in anyway a review of the establishment. The Tilted Kilt is a fine place for men to gather and … be boys. I may not have cared for the food, but I have complicated taste buds. While I seemed to judge the chicks working there … well, I was judging them, but who wouldn’t? Seriously, though, the girls were nice and better than the wait staff at most restaurants. Plus, they looked great in their barely there plaid skirts and bras. If I were a dude, I’d say I found the only restaurant worth hanging out in. But I’m a chick and I can probably tell you I won’t go back.