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Merry Christmas, everyone! I’m busy doing Christmas things so alas, no new post today. However, here is an old story from 2009 about my asshole ex-boyfriend. Might not be the most appropriate for the holidays, but meh, everyone needs a break from Rudolf sometimes. So pour yourself a glass of spiked ‘nog and enjoy!

The Chef

I think my ex-boyfriend is reading my blog.

This is an ex-boyfriend from a couple years ago. We’ll call him The Chef. He was a sous chef at a restaurant downtown, and boy howdy did he like to talk about it! We only dated for about five months. He wasn’t very notable except for two things.

The first is a story of how we said I love you. We had been dating for about three months and things were pretty good. We’d see each other two or three times a week. It was usually weird hours, however, since he worked like 3-11 PM or something like that, maybe Wednesday – Sunday. So the hours were not ideal, but it was working out for the most part. I’m a firm believer in the Three Month Rule, which is something I invented in my mind. It basically states that the first three months of any relationship is the honeymoon period. You know, Best Foot Forward, still has that new relationship smell, can’t keep your hands off of each other. But something happens to you (well, at least to me) around the end of month number three. I either really like the guy and he really likes me and we move into the comfortable Boyfriend-Girlfriend Normative stage, or one of us realizes, mmm… I’m kinda over this. Anyhoo, it was right around the three-month period or so and we were in bed, doing what a new couple does in bed. Which is fuck. So we’re fucking and all is going well and all of a sudden he kinda leans in and whispers into my ear, “I love you.”

My heart kinda stops for a second. How sweet! was my first thought at those Three Little Words.

Now I’ve heard that you’re not supposed to say them for the first time during sex, but I’m not too big on rules and was swept up in the moment. So I said it back. “I love you, too!”

There was a distinct pause in his thrusting. An ever so brief stiffening of the shoulder muscles. It didn’t last for more than a second until he continued on, but it was noted. Hmm, I thought. That was a bizarre response. But whatever, keep going, now let’s get hot dogs.

The next day we hung out, maybe got food, I don’t remember. I was leaving and I kissed him goodbye. I waited for him to say it again or something at least indicating that we had just crossed over into the Love Zone. But nothing. Meh, I shrugged. Maybe he’s not one to say it all of the time. No biggie.

A week passed. Still no I love yous from his end. I begin to wonder about it but figured maybe I should just take the lead on this one. Next time we had a kissy moment, I quietly said, “I love you.”

He stiffened again. Looked down and picked up a cutting knife on the counter. “This knife is great,” he said. “We got some like this at the restaurant and so I ordered one for myself.”

“That’s fascinating,” I said, and was sure that something was not right.

I let it go for a while and later during another kissy moment, I said it again.

“I don’t think I’m ready to say that yet,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I said, confused. “You already said it. You said it first.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did, you said it the other week. In bed.”

“Yeah…about that,” he started. “I didn’t say ‘I love you.’ I said something else and I think you misheard me.”

“What? What could you have possibly said that I would have misheard you?” He was clearly hesitant. Finally, he came out with it.

“I said… ‘I love your pussy.’ I was just talking dirty. And you misheard me.”

I died.

Here’s this guy, getting all freaky, moaning, “Baby, I love your pussy,” into my ear, and I swell up with emotion and yell “OMG I LOVE YOU TOOOO!!!1!!11!!!” How humiliating.

That’s the first reason why The Chef was memorable. Because he brought me the hilarious “I Love Your Pussy (But Not You)” story.

The second reason is not so funny.

After about five months of dating, I woke up at his place at about 3:00 AM. I was burning up, shaking and my throat was on fire. Now I’m a pretty tough girl and am used to dealing with some bizarre medical stuff, but this was bad. I’d even go as far as to say it was Peace Corps-developing-country bad. I woke up The Chef.

“I’m sick,” I said. “Something is really wrong.”

He grumbled.

“No, really. I’m scared.”

“Well what do you want me to do about it?” he snapped. Had I been healthy, I would have opened up a can. But my focus at the moment was on not dying.

“I think I need to go to the ER.”

He sighed heavily and got out of bed. I tried not to fall over while I pulled on some socks and pants. We got into my car, me in the passenger seat, head slumped against the window, breathing heavily, and he drove to one of the university hospitals in the area. We walked in and I registered at the front desk. They told us to have a seat and we’d be called as soon as they could get to me.

We sat down amidst a swarm of people suffering from something or other. Babies crying, moaning individuals, lots of old people. Every fifteen minutes or so an ambulance pulled up and someone was rushed by in the background on a stretcher, with what I can only assume was a gun wound. It was busy. As I was not bleeding from any orifice of my body, I was not priority. Welcome to Chicago. So we sat.

And sat. And sat. For five hours. And during those five hours, The Chef sat next to me and did not touch me once. He didn’t even speak to me or look at me once. He sat there, stone-faced, staring straight ahead. Pissed that he had to be here. Not once did he put his arm around me. Not once did he say, “How are you feeling? Can I get you some water? Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll be ok.” I occasionally would attempt to lift my head up and muster enough strength to ask, “Are you ok?” He ignored me. Stared straight ahead. I was flabbergasted. I would have been nicer to my worst enemy in the same situation. How hurtful, how selfish, how cruel. What a fucking douchebag. And here I am asking him if he’s ok! I knew right then and there that it was over. He might as well have hit me.

After about four and a half hours of sitting in the waiting room, barely able to stay upright and simultaneously sweating through my clothes and shaking uncontrollably, The Chef finally spoke.

“I can’t take this anymore. I’m going to cab it back to my place. Call me when you’re home.” He handed me my keys.

And he got up and walked out.

He left me. In the hospital emergency waiting room.

Thirty minutes later, a nurse called my name. I rose and wobbled over to her.

“Oh honey, you look so sick,” she said, and she put her arm around me.

That did it. I burst out crying at this simple act of kindness, finally relieved to be getting some comfort, even from a sympathetic stranger.

I had a 103.5 fever and was given some fluids in an IV for a while. They said it was a bad flu virus that had been going around. This was a year before the big H1N1 outbreak, and part of me thinks that perhaps this was a precursor. Whatever it was, it was the sickest I’d been in years. I drove myself home in my car that had been parked in the hospital garage. I prayed I wouldn’t be pulled over for drunk driving because I might as well have been.

I got home and crawled into bed and slept. When I woke up several hours later, I had a text message from The Chef.

“Hey baby, did you get home? Are you feeling better?”

Was he kidding me? I mean, really? Is anyone really that oblivious?

I called him. “Hi,” he said, “Are you home?”

“Yes,” I squawked. “My overnight bag with my stuff I need is at your place,” I said. There was no way we were going to be dating any longer, but I didn’t have the strength to deal with it now.

“Ok,” he said. “Well I was going to go get a haircut at my barber in your neighborhood today,” he started. Ok, I thought. At least he’s going to bring me my bag when he comes here. And then he finished his sentence.

“So when you come here to pick up your bag, do you think you can give me a ride back to your neighborhood?”

I was silent. It was true. Someone could be that oblivious.

I went back to sleep and when I woke up, I realized that I shouldn’t be alone. I called my parents and told them that I needed to come over to stay for a few days until I was better. So I got in my car and again set out to get from point A to point B without crashing. The Chef’s place was on the way to my parents, so I stopped by to get my bag and tell him to fuck off forever.

His other douchebag chef friend was over. They were talking about food and how good they are at cooking it and how cool they are because they cooked food and would one day would be famous chefs, maybe even on the Food Network or something. I was always embarrassed for them when this happened. I told him I wasn’t staying, I wanted my bag and I was going to my parents.

“Why?” he said, completely clueless.

“Because, you asshole, I’m sick,” my voice was a scratchy, jumpy, squeaky mess. “You do realize that this is done, right? You sat next to me in an ER for five hours and didn’t once hold my hand, you wouldn’t even look at me. What kind of person does that to their girlfriend? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He didn’t really have an answer. He just muttered something about maybe needing to focus on his career right now and maybe he shouldn’t be in a relationship.

“You got that right,” I croaked as I walked out the door. “One day you’ll be on your deathbed and you’ll realize that no one cares if you were a good cook or not, they remember if you were a good person or not. And you’re not. And by the way, all of your food tastes like balsamic vinaigrette.”

That was the last time I ever saw him or heard from him.

Until maybe six months ago. I suddenly got a Facebook message from him asking how I was. Fine, I replied. He kept making small talk and asking me questions, which I would answer but not ask any in reply. This kept going a few times until I finally said, “The Chef, why are you emailing me? The last time we spoke you left me in an ER. What do you want from me?”

He said that he had been doing some thinking and felt really bad about that. He wanted to apologize. Oh, and by the way, he was now recently single again and just happened to be moving to my neighborhood. We should get a drink sometime.

I told him thanks for the apology and ignored the rest of the stuff. He later added me as a friend, which I allowed, only so he could see I was happily In A Relationship with someone new. A couple weeks later, I deleted him from my friends.

And then two days ago I get yet another message from him on Facebook. It said, “I like your tattoo. What does it say?” I recently got a tattoo that is shown in my profile photo, which would be all he could see of my page since he was deleted. WTF?

I wrote back, “How do you know if you like it if you don’t know what it says? It says ‘I Hate The Chef.’ Do you still like it?” I must admit he had a really good response when he wrote “Yes. It must have really hurt.” I laughed and said, “Ha. Good one.” He then went on to tell me all about his really cool new tattoos that he got.

“My right arm. Top and Bottom (Very Classy Font). ‘Veni Vedi Vici,’ referring to a letter sent by Caesar to the Roman senate. And ‘Lucky Son’ spelled out in roman numerals outlined by four chevrons to signify my executive chef status… I’m getting two more on my wrists soon hopefully.”

“Congrats,” said and then deleted his emails. I tried to handle myself as Very Classy as his tattoo fonts were (it’s always good to point out when you’re being classy) even though I wanted to tell him to go fuck off. I wondered at his timing, however, since I had just parted ways with my boyfriend a few weeks ago. Funny how he seemed to email right after he was newly single and now when I was. But how could he know?

Unless he reads my blog.

And it is for that reason that I write this post. Just in case he does, he can now be very clear on where I stand on him and his emails, despite our relationship statuses of the moment. Though I wish you no ill will and a long and happy balsamic vinaigrettey career in the food industry, I have no interest in ever dating you again. Or seeing you again. Or talking to you again. Email me all you want, The Chef. Much like your new tattoo’s font, I will continue being Very Classy. But in case you are wondering about my real feelings? You only have to refer to this post to learn that you can go fuck yourself with a cactus.

(image courtesy of: officialpsds.com/SWEDISH-CHEF-PSD71677.html)