Where's the Poop, Robin?

Regular readers will know that I'm a big fan of How I Met Your Mother, and that I've found many instances where plot points on that show mirror my dating experiences.

Last week, Robin tried to casually tell the group that she'd seen her ex, a newscaster, on his new show, and that she turned the TV off and realized she was over him. Lily knew better, and asked, "Where's the poop, Robin?" She explained that she'd had a dog as a child who would make the same face Robin was making, and it always meant he'd pooped somewhere in the house. Robin then had to admit that she'd actually watched the whole show, gotten drunk, and called her ex.

Apparently I am as bad at hiding things as my favorite fictional Canadian. To wit:

Queen of Spades: So, how did the date go last night?
CarrieLives: Oh, really well. He was nice, and we had a really good time.
Queen of Spades: Did you kiiisss him? (said in her best elementary-school teasing tone)
CarrieLives: Yes, yes I did.
Queen of Spades: Anything else?
Carrie Lives: ...
Queen of Spades: I KNEW it!

What can I say? I have a terrible poker face and zero willpower. So...there's that.

Super Powers!

This really SHOULD be an entry about my Sunday evening. Because, dear readers, it was FAB. It was so fab that I have reverted to my less awesome self who is now sitting around going "Please, please let him call me. No really, pleeeaaase!" But I'm gonna spare you until there's more to say (like, until he calls, or he doesn't).

Instead I'll tell you about an interesting phenomenon I have noticed involving a guy I know, one who I'll call the Toxic Avenger. Why? Because he is most certainly toxic, and he appears to have super powers. Chiefly, the power to know exactly when it's the WORST time to crawl out of the woodwork and try to hook up with me. Again.

I'm partly at fault here. I agree to do this again and again because, hey, it's fun and he's a former massage therapist and has other, um, talents. So what's not to like, at least on the physical level, yes? Except that he's cryptic and odd and makes me feel like I am the moony freshman to his sophisticated senior. Also, I have reason to believe he's not the most honest gent on the planet. Oh, and every time we're together it's like a compliment bomb went off. It's cool the first time, but then you start wondering how anyone could seriously wax THAT poetic about the curve of your hips. I mean, yeah, they look good, but for real?

So of COURSE, in the midst of me being all swoony over Mr. Sunday Night, and arranging a date with another guy who I'd already agreed to go out with, Toxic Avenger pops up on Facebook chat and wants to know what I'm up to Friday.

Me: I have tentative plans, actually. (Complete lie.)
Him: So do I, but I figured maybe you'd want to one-up them.
Me: I wasn't aware I had the power to one-up them.
Him: Now you know. (signs off)

So please, Universe, let me have actual plans for Friday and/or some freaking willpower. If not...I guess at least I get a massage out of it.