Month: February 2009

The Diminutive Russian — another contender for Best Worst Boyfriend

Another contender for my Best Worst Boyfriend would be The Diminutive Russian. The year was 1993. I had recently arrived in DC for my college internship and was heading to Habana Village in Adams Morgan to meet some friends. Little did I know at the time how much impact the bartender at that salsa club would have on my life.

I went to order a drink and spoke to the bartender in Spanish. He got very defensive and said, “I’m not Spanish. I’m Russian.” OK. My mistake. We started talking and he asked me to stay around after my group left. I wondered how I would get home, but he said that his friend would give me a lift. (Oh, to be 20 and not even think that I would be getting in a car with a psycho.)

He was interesting and had a bit of mystery to him. The Diminutive Russian was dark and handsome, but very short for me, and I towered over him by at least five inches in my platform sandals. His friend showed up, and as we were getting ready to leave, a girl walked in to the bar and kissed The Diminutive Russian. Huh? I was confused, but didn’t say anything. He told me that this girl surprised him from out-of-town so he was going to hang out with her that night.

“Is she your girlfriend?” I inquired.

“No. We’re just friends,” he replied.

I gave him my number, and his friends drove me home. He called the following night and we went out. I should’ve recognized the warning signs, but I didn’t. Over the next several months, The Diminutive Russian continued to claim that the girl, Kristen, wasn’t his girlfriend because she was married. I believed him — partly because I wanted to and partly because I was 20 and didn’t know better.

Within a week after we met, he started making comments about my weight.

“You’re so heavy.” I was a size 8-10.

“How much do you eat?”

“You really need to start watching your diet!”

If some guy said that to me now, I would laugh in his face and tell him to lose my number. But, at that age, I reacted much differently. I lost 25 pounds in 8 weeks on The Diminutive Russian Diet Plan. He was like my own unhealthy Jenny Craig!

Despite how he treated me and how much he made me cry, I fell hard for him. We spent a lot of time at Habana and The Vault after-hours, drinking, kissing and dancing. I remember many a night when we would have sex until the sun rose. The Diminutive Russian also had an intellectual side, and we would get into deep conversations about international relations and Oscar Wilde’s works.

Most of his friends were Russian and too intense for me. A lot of them were interested in things (cocaine, threesomes, etc.) that were not of interest to me. At The Diminutive Russian’s birthday party, no one informed me that I was supposed to be part of his present and hook up with a girl right in front of him and his best friend. The fact that the host of the party turned on a lesbian porn movie, and his girl, Olga, started rubbing my legs should have tipped me off. But, I didn’t initially realize that something was amiss because I had been drinking. Once I figured out what was going on, I told The Diminutive Russian that I wanted to leave, and he seemed (thankfully) as offended as I was by his best friend’s plan.

One would hope that type of thing would have been an isolated incident, but it wasn’t. On my last night in DC, we went to Trax with an old friend that was visiting from Russia. When we headed back to The Diminutive Russian’s studio, I assumed that his friend would let us have fun on the floor while he slept in the bed. He did not, and I suddenly felt another set of hands on me. I yelled at the friend to get off of me, and the two of them started screaming in Russian at each other. I’m happy to report that the friend went back to bed without further protest and this didn’t turn into a bad Lifetime movie, but it was still another odd night with The Diminutive Russian.

When I returned to college for my senior year, we stayed in touch and saw each other when we could. In one call, he said how much he missed me and that he was sending a plane ticket for me to come down to DC the day after Christmas for a party that he was hosting. He asked me to stay with him through New Year’s, and I agreed, provided that Kristen (the ambiguous girlfriend) wasn’t going to be at either event. He insisted that she wasn’t.

In my infinite wisdom (note sarcasm), I told my parents that I couldn’t bear to be apart from The Diminutive Russian for another semester and arranged to take my last four classes at GWU. My parents thought that was very unwise (understatement), but supported me nonetheless.

On December 26, 1993, I arrived at the Diminutive Russian’s doorstep with my luggage. The Russian party was a huge success, and I worked coat check as he managed the floor. It felt like we were finally a couple, and I was even beginning to stand up for myself around him.

“You need to eat more. You are too skinny,” he commented after the party.

“Really? I doubt that you’ll ever stop criticizing me no matter how much I weigh. You just want to control me, and that needs to stop!” I replied.

On New Year’s Eve, I arrived at Habana in a tiara and red dress. At midnight, The Diminutive Russian kissed me, and everything seemed perfect. My bliss was short-lived, though, as Kristen showed up at the bar at 2am. She walked up to The Diminutive Russian and they started making out right in front of me! I did my best to hide my tears until I left Habana. I had nowhere to go other than his apartment so I went back there and called my parents, sobbing hysterically.

I wasn’t sure if the evening could get more bizarre, but it did. At 5am, The Diminutive Russian returned to his place – alone – and acted as though nothing had happened. I stayed with him in his apartment, and I was glad that I did because I learned a lot that night.

The Diminutive Russian had lied to me about his relationship with Kristen. Yes, she was married, but much to my surprise, so was The Diminutive Russian! He was in a green-card marriage with an old girlfriend. Kristen was in a marriage with an older man for security. And, Kristen and The Diminutive Russian loved each other, but I was his girlfriend who he really liked. (If you are confused at this point, imagine how I felt at the time!)

I left The Diminutive Russian’s place the next day. He and I talked a few times after that, but we never dated again.

In 1996, we ran into each other at the original Ozio. Out of boredom and nostalgia, The Diminutive Russian and I ended up spending the night together. I just remember being there with him and wondering why I ever was so attracted to him in the first place. Three years later, I was in a much different place, whereas he was doing exactly the same thing with his life.

The following night, I had a date with another guy. When I got home at the end of the evening, I had 23 voicemail messages from The Diminutive Russian! Yes, 23! I broke out into a huge smile, knowing that if only for one night, The Diminutive Russian felt about me the way that I had felt about him in 1993. I wasn’t sure what the Russian’s next move would be, but for once, I didn’t care. You never know when you are over someone until you just are. I finally was and sure slept soundly that night!

The Beef — a contender for the Best Worst Boyfriend

I put a link to my blog on Facebook to increase traffic, and got an interesting comment from an ex-boyfriend, The Beef, about how he should move back to DC. I'm not sure if he meant that he would do better in this town than most guys or that I would do better dating him, but either option was amusing.

Why did I find this so funny? Because The Beef ranks up there on my list of Best Worst Boyfriends! We dated in 1996 for several months and again in 2001. (Oh, if you're realizing that I have a pattern for recycling my exes, then pat yourself on the back.) I will list his pros and his cons, and let you make your own determination about whether he was a good boyfriend.

Pros:

1. The Beef is articulate, intelligent and active politically. He worked for the RNC and the Congressional Black Caucus. The Beef was a player in politics at an age when most of us are merely excited to vote; and

2. He is an amazing lover. The Beef is not a euphemism, and he knows how to work his kabob.

Cons:

1. When we reconnected in 2001, The Beef had just moved back to DC and was living temporarily at a friend's place. Shortly after we started dating again, I headed off to California on vacation. The Beef called and asked if he could stay at my place indefinitely. I felt bad for him and saw some potential so I said sure. My friend, Nicole, commented, "Only you could go away and have your relationship move forward." I wouldn't say that The Beef was a freeloader, but he definitely wasn't doing as well professionally as he once was;

2. When I returned from my trip, I was looking forward to seeing him and opened the door with a huge smile on my face. My smile turned to a look of wide-eyed shock, when I saw my apartment. There were roaches in my studio. There were several trash bags that were just in the middle of the room, despite the fact that the trash chute was 30 steps away. His stuff was all over. I like my place impeccably neat so I was freaking out.

"I missed you so much," The Beef said. "I'm so glad you're back. What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that I can't live in this mess," I replied;

3. The path of destruction went on…and on. I had a bizarre burnt sienna stain on my carpet, a cigarette burn on my comforter, and a huge black ink stain on my duvet. He didn't apologize or mention any of those things to me in advance so it was like a torturous scavenger hunt. One of my picture frames was broken, and I asked him where the photo of my parents was.

"The photo is right there," he stated.

"That was a two-sided picture frame. Where's the other picture of my folks?" I inquired. (For some back-story, my Mom passed away in 1997. Pictures of her are things that I understandably treasure.) He said that he didn't have it;

4. We went to a birthday party for a guy I dated a bit in college, and The Beef drank a lot of vodka. I don't have a problem with that, but out of nowhere, I saw The Beef's version of Mr. Hyde. I made a comment about how he kept talking to this girl at the party, and he started screaming at me. I asked him to calm down, but he wouldn't. For the next two hours, he proceeded to talk about how: a) fat I had gotten; b) my health problems aren't a big deal; and c) I'm so spoiled. Through his entire tirade, I did not shed a tear, and just told him that he was way out of line.

The icing on the cake? He said that I made him so mad that he wanted to hit me and screamed that I was a bitch.

"OK. You can leave now."

"Where am I supposed to go? It's 3am!" he exclaimed.

"I don't care where you go. You only need to call me a bitch and threaten to hit me once."

As he was getting his Hefty bags together (he used trash bags in lieu of luggage), the picture of my parents that was missing fell out of the bag. He claimed that he didn't know he had that.

He apologized for his behavior the next day, but I told him that there was no excuse for what he said. I was done;

5. Several weeks later, I had friends come over for dinner. I went to set the table, and pulled out all of my small plates. The plate on the bottom still had food on it. Apparently, The Beef didn't wash the dishes before he put them on the bottom of the pile in the back in the cupboard. Gross; and

6. The following month, my phone bill came. While I was on vacation, The Beef made $75 in calls from my home phone to a (900) number. I e-mailed him about getting the money back. He insisted that the (900) number was for Technical Support for his computer. More like Testicle Support, if you ask me! He said that he would get me the money, but I knew that he never would pay me back.

I called one of my girlfriends, after I found the dishes and the phone bill came. In both conversations, I opened with the same line:

"I HATE THE BEEF!!!"

Saran Wrap should be clingy, not boys

2008

I decided to at least meet Mr. Port Authority when I came back home to DC. To assuage the fears of my friends who thought he was a stalker, I picked a public place in the middle of the day. When he walked up to me, I was surprised that he was even more attractive in person. Mr. Port Authority also had a calm air about him. We grabbed coffee and then the following day, we went to a café. As I had thought, he was more lonely than psycho.

He started talking a lot about how he enjoys the “simple pleasures” in life. I’m all for that, but after a few hours with him, I realized that “simple pleasures” was his code for “I don’t have much money and can’t pay for anything.” I’m fine with paying my own way for things or sticking to casual get-togethers, but there is a limit.

Mr. Port Authority called me two nights after we went to the café. I had been sick all day and was just starting to feel better. He mentioned coming over with a DVD and taking care of me. He seemed sincere so I said sure.

“What do you have for dinner?” he inquired.

“Umm…nothing. I’m barely keeping crackers down so I’m not that hungry,” I replied.

“What if we order a pizza?” he asked.

“I’m not going to eat any, but you can order whatever you want,” I said.

“Well, I was thinking that since I’m coming over, you would order the pizza,” he commented.

“Wait a minute. You want me to pay for your pizza?” I realized.

“Well, if it’s such a big deal, you don’t have to, but I thought that would be nice of you,” he stated.

From that moment forward, Mr. Port Authority became Mr. Pizza. Seriously, you can’t even afford your own pizza? How old are you? I called in the pizza order, and yes, sucker that I am, I paid for it. An hour and a half later, he finally came over. By that point, I just wanted to go to sleep.

He rented some movie that I totally wasn’t interested in so I tried to fall asleep on the couch. As I was starting to drift off, his chewing woke me up. It was like being in a barn with a horse during feeding time. But louder. I looked over at him eating at the table and noticed that there was food falling out of his mouth and crumbs falling onto the floor. (For those of you who don’t know me or haven’t been to my house, I am one of those people who likes her place to be impeccably neat. I drop stuff on the floor, too, but then I clean it up immediately.) Mr. Pizza, by contrast, didn’t even notice what he was doing and just kept shoveling more slices into his mouth. I was thoroughly disgusted.

He ended up spending the night. Mr. Pizza was like a little lost puppy. He was completely respectful and just wanted to be held. A week later, he asked if he could come over to watch a movie and spend the night since he had a doctor’s appointment in the morning near my condo. That was fine or so I thought.

He came over with all this equipment for sleep apnea, which he didn’t have with him the previous week. Mr. Pizza also used several alarms in the morning, which he neglected to mention as we were going to sleep. I awoke to his watch alarm ringing in my ear and then he rolled over and accidentally clocked me in the head. As I was holding my head in pain, his iPod alarm went off loudly. (I like quiet almost as much as I like cleanliness.) Without saying anything, I knew that I would never have him spend the night again.

In the morning, he was off to consult with a doctor about surgery to improve his snoring.

“So, are you coming with me?” he asked.

“Where?” I questioned.

“To the doctor’s office. Don’t you want to go with me?” he inquired.

“No. I don’t.” I replied. Seriously? I barely know you. Why would I want to go into a surgical consult with someone I haven’t even kissed.

The little lost puppy image that I had for him was soon replaced by an image of Saran Wrap. There is clingy and there is clingy. Mr. Pizza was the latter. He wanted to spend his birthday a week later with me, and kept calling and IM-ing me to remind me that his birthday was coming up. I said that we could meet for lunch for his birthday. You might be wondering why I would even be willing to do that. Well, I didn’t want him to be alone, but I also didn’t want to celebrate in a way that made it seem as though we were a couple.

On the morning of his birthday, I texted him and told him to let me know when we could meet for lunch. He called a couple hours later to say that he was at the doctor’s and thought that we could get together in the evening. He insisted that he had no time available during the day, even though he had said earlier in the week that he could meet for lunch. I told him that I had plans later and wished him a Happy Birthday. I didn’t mean to be cold, but I really couldn’t take another night with him.

The following week, he called me again the night before his surgery. I knew what he wanted (to spend the night and have me take him to the hospital) so I just let it go to voicemail. Mr. Pizza kept contacting me to give me the play-by-play of his recovery. I tried to keep our communication brief since I wanted to hear that he was recouping well, but didn’t want him to read too much into it. A few weeks later, he asked what went wrong with us.

“Well,” I wrote in an IM, “I think we’re just different people. Does that make sense to you?”

“Not really. Can you elaborate?” he asked.

“I guess that I am pretty independent and feel more comfortable with a guy who’s the same way.” I said.

“So, I just wanted too much City Girl time?” he inquired.

“Yeah, I guess that’s it,” I responded. What else was there to say? I felt bad enough for him that I didn’t want to say, “You’re messy, loud, needy, looking for a Sugar Mama, and annoy the crap out of me.” Game over, Mr. Pizza. Thanks for playing.