Anyway—first—who have I seriously made myself available to? This one’s the easiest –no one, really. Only the aforementioned gentleman got the real full glimpse into the Jodester, and I think that prob has a lot to do with my lack of relationships—I’m a bit hesitant and wary of letting any spies into my vulnerability. Ok, next—have there been any gents that I fell for hard? I guess this was the biggest question that’s been in and out of my thoughts lately. The answer, sadly, is yes. I say sadly, because either the feelings weren’t mutual (or wait a minute. . .), or in more actuality, I never made my feelings clear with these select gentlemen so while I say to myself it wasn’t mutual—it’s probably more likely I was beating myself up so hard that I couldn’t even see if the feelings were mutual or not because I was too busy dumping on myself. Anyway, sure yeah—I’ve had flings. I’ve dated. I’ve had flavors of the month. But actually like liking someone? I can probably count them all on my fingers throughout my life (even including grade school crushes, thank you very much).
I figured it out though, the ones that really meant something and possessed qualities in which I aspire to meet now are the gentlemen who never received a nickname. Now let’s get this straight here, nicknames are not good—at least in staying power. They are not terms of endearment. They are not cute little pet names. They are how I refer to members of the male sex to my girlfriends behind said dudes’ backs. Completely juvenile and 175% immature, yes. I can see why I’m single easily – I’m shallow, judgmental and possess the intellect of a 7th grade girl. Whatever, it’s a habit I’ve had since freshman year. I don’t know exactly when/why/how it started, I just remember sitting in Rodli Hall cafeteria at UW-RF, nudging Tessa whispering full of glee, “Check it out, it’s him—Stale Popcorn.” I think Stale Popcorn might have actually been the first nickname, come to think of it. Whenever I think of, see, or eat stale popcorn, I think very fondly of one of my first college crushes. (No wait, Creepy Kyle was first, but whatever he wore socks with sandals and said he loved me after two weeks via hotmail, so he’s exempt—weird).
But yeah, Stale Popcorn. His real name was Tim. He was cute as hell. Definitely not the typical Jodi type by any means, he was part hippie, part farmer, total Sconnie who wore horrible clothes—think like Wrangler jeans, worker boots and horrible tan shirts. He was skinny as a rail and on the quiet side. But something about his goofy shy smile and big wide eyes drew me to him. He was cute as a button—but again, not exactly smoking hot like STD guy (not venereal diseases—Saves The Day Guy—one of maybe five guys who rocked an emo band shirt at an otherwise hick cowboy university—STD Guy is a whole other post, just thinking of his body (I never go for built dudes but DAYUM) and sexy sexy face is making me salivate heavier than Pavlov’s Dogs, shit); but still cute—(back to Stale Popcorn here). He was nice to look at, but not my Antonio Sabato Junior. I guess he was like eye candy, but not the Oreo’s—more like stale popcorn—it’s tasty enough, and if it’s there and it’s all you got, it will definitely suffice as a snack. That was Stale Popcorn—Tim was a good kid. Anyway, he was my goal freshman year. I’d see him at the cafeteria and find an excuse to go sneak another plate of French fries or fountain soda to try and follow him around. I’d walk faster when I’d see him at the library mall, just to get in his line of vision. But as much as I tried, it never worked. But then, finally, there was one magical night at the Football House (or was it the Basketball House? I never knew the difference bw those bro-infested shitpits). I remember clearly, like it was yesterday, walking down the crooked staircase behind Tessa who got to the bottom before me and suddenly whipped around to face me, eyes as huge as saucers. “Jodeeeeeee!!!” she squealed and without another word, grabbed my wrist and led me to the entrance of the filthy basement.
There I ran, straight into, Stale Popcorn. I was blind sighted. And in love—well, not hardly. But I was half in the bag and feeling giddier than a fat girl getting asked to the prom. Tessa had whispered to him before I came through the doorway that he “should probably say hi to her(me)” before scampering away. I don’t have the slightest clue what we talked about or how long it lasted, but let’s just say Jodi got her goal. Actually, I grew to really enjoy Tim and I’m pretty sure he got a kick out of me—we hung fairly regularly for the remainder of the school year, but were not a romantic item per say. More less, I would go to his and “Bouncing Brad,” his roommate’s dorm room and watch them get lit up and play the didgeridoo and bongo drums, all the while making me listen to some G. Love and the Special Sauce. It was my brief flirtation with hippiedom, while I still stood out like a sore thumb sporting my ever hip camouflage army pants and Jimmy Eat World hoodie I lived in in 2001. But yeah, Stale Popcorn, I think he’s married and works for the Wisconsin DNR these days. Good for him.
So I guess Stale Popcorn sort of defies my nickname rule, and STD Guy isn’t the worst tag you could get either—well, technically speaking I guess it is, but my meaning behind it was totally not intentional. . . (Side story of STD Guy, he wound up living with a pretty good friend of mine from the college radio station. One day while chilling at their house, my friend walked by and caught me red-handed smelling STD Guy’s bath towel. It was pretty creepy—but c’mon, wouldn’t you want to get a taste of what pure infatuation smells like?) I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I heard a rumor recently that STD Guy is into cougars—goddamn him.
But yes, back to nicknames. While some are worse than others, even if the nickname is cute and I can now think back fondly on some of my victims, the assigned nickname is the first sign of “It’s not gonna happen”-dom. (Mike definitely never had a nickname. ) Who else fell victim to freshman year at UWRF? Non-romantically, there was Salt-Man, Nerd, Mafia Man, (fellow journalism student whose family had to relocate to Green Bay to avoid their ties with the mob—apparently dude’s uncle was the under guy for John Gotti and the fam was on the lam), oh yeah and Benny the Beerman—but that’s as much of mention that that slimeball is getting in this post, the little troll.
So I think that’s where the shallow name game stemmed from—but not only did it follow me through the remainder of my college career, it’s still with me loud and strong today. I’ve been ultra-unlucky in my quest for companionship since my split with the ex last year, but within the 12 months of wince-worthy challenges I’ve come across: Troll, Slimeball, Little-Timmy- Miller-from-the-Well, Creeper, Creepster, Hairy-Butt-Man, Sniffles, The-Dude-Who-Slapped-Me-In-The-Face, Stalker (wait, that was the same dude as Slimeball), and a handful of others who I’d just throw “Creepy” in front of their first name. The saddest part was, I would pinpoint these nicknames usually when I first met/started hanging out with any of these dudes—given, in the last year not a single guy has made it past the 3-date limit with the exception of one jerk who I randomly drunken made out with maybe 4 or 5 times tops—but that hardly counts. But still, that’s saying I’d meet these guys, entirely straight faced, and either dine out or grab drinks for an evening and then rush home to IM or text Courtney, Dara or Caroline and exchange horror stories; referring to “How creepy Slimer was tonight—he got hit by a car on his bike on his way to see me and still showed up to the bar all bloody!”, “Troll kept trying to hold my hand—who the fuck does he think he is bringing me roses on a second date?!”, “Oh fuck, I think Creeper’s in love with me already. . .” It was bad.
So now, thinking back . . . who hasn’t received a nickname from me? I’ll admit that I’ve probably at least swapped spit once or twice with a good portion of my good male friends at some point or another in our pasts. I didn’t give any of these dudes nicknames, (or if I did they will NEVER know about it!!!!). But thinking realistically, how many of these guys were exempt that got away and would have had a shot at (at least my personal) happiness. I’ve thought about this a lot the past week. I can think of three guys who I’ve always had feelings for and probably will for as long as I know them, whether or not they know this I have no clue, but I’m pretty safe in my assumption that it doesn’t matter if they knew or not, I’m 98% certain it wouldn’t make a difference—and plus I’m lucky enough to be friends with these individuals and I would never ever risk losing that friendship over a stupid stab at high hopes—not worth it. Then again, I can think of at least three to four others who I had feelings for but didn’t realize it at the time, and totally blew it and treated them like dirt. Luckily for me I’m pretty sure I’ve been since forgiven, but if I had a time machine, I would go back and do it all over differently—I can’t say I would have continued pursuing any romantic relationships, but I definitely would have ended things on a much more respectable level.
I can honestly say that now, though, if things had posed opportunities at this stage in my life, I wouldn’t have been such a fuck up idiot and who knows what could have happened. Woulda, shoulda, coulda—but I didn’t. Oh well, it all happens certain ways for certain reasons and the objective behind this rambling post isn’t to beat myself up or live in any stage of whimsful regret—it’s just an in-depth observation—none of these dudes had nicknames (well, not incriminating ones anyway). I look forward to the day when I will meet a guy, and rather than instantly click an identifiable immediate association or nickname to relay to my girlfriends post-meeting, I will just be dumbfounded and speechless. All I truly yearn for is to be brainwashed by infatuation. I’m confident it’s coming; I just gotta stop, shut up once in a while and actually allow someone to swipe me off my feet.
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