Why Dating Co-Workers Is A Bad Idea

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from "Slightly Disheveled." This is why we don't date co-workers.**

I was a head hostess in a "gourmet" pizza place. Our pasta chef was only a little bit older than I was and was really cute in a kind of awkward skater way. I flirted with him and exchanged off-color jokes and we were... friendly. He was quirky and offbeat. I like that.

He eventually got around to asking me out and took me out to dinner and to his favorite bar. I displayed my full range of ineptness at pool. Had some... was I young enough to have ordered RED WINE in a Dive Bar? I guess I was. One of the girls there kinda pulled me aside to tell me that he was bad news. Okay. Jealous much?

I got the flu soon after and he wanted to fix me a blood orange salad with a orange-balsamic vinaigrette dressing. He was speaking my language, so I let him come over. It was delicious. I agreed to another date after I got better.

He came into work the next time Absolutely Brilliantly Happy. He swung through the door and walked up to me and said: "You'll never ever guess what I found on my way to work. It's so cool. Not everyone would understand it though. But you would. You're really going to love this." He opened up his brilliant yellow backpack to show me three wet objects the size of a man's fist wrapped and tied off neatly in those long baggies that newspapers get delivered in. I was perplexed.

"They're cat heads."

(ahem)

"I'm going to put them in the back yard with the rest of them. You put a rock on top of the hole and the other critters don't eat them but the bugs clean them off."

I told him that I couldn't go on that date with him after all.

So he started showing up in my backyard at night watching my house "To make sure I was okay." He told me to watch for his Mickey's Wide Mouth Bottles in the recycling so that I would be able to tell how long he spent each night watching my house. Which he did... for about four bottles a night... for the next three weeks.

I left the state.

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Going Out on St. Patty's Day

**Editors' Note: Today's guest post come in from "Terry Tucker" who sent us The Perfect First Date a few weeks ago. Thanks Terry!**

Driving downtown, I spot my ex-boss walking on the sidewalk. Should let it go, but I can’t. Later I call him on the cell, ask how it’s going. Tell him I saw him walking downtown, why don’t we get together and catch up….how about St. Patty’s day?.......been awhile.

Quite a while…..we did not part on good terms. In fact he fired me for insubordination, and I wonder what in the world I’m doing…..asking him out, wanting to see him again. Chance to clear things up? Always a lot of sexual tension between us. Or maybe just tension….we disagreed on politics and just about everything else…..the way we saw the world. But he was good looking, and flaunted it, and so did I…….flirting and sexual double entendres were part of the daily routine. Going with a biker at the time, so it never came to anything.

Still irked me the way he fired me. Had a dentist’s appointment on Friday afternoon at 2. The doctor’s office was on the other side of town, so I planned to take the rest of the afternoon off, not come back. No way, he said. Would not budge, even when I explained it. When I returned to the office the next Monday morning, he had me clean out my desk (hovering above) and walked me to the door. My last memory of him was a smirk on his face. No wonder I felt conflicted about this date. He should have been working for me, when I thought about it.

We had dinner at McCormick’s…..on the way back I suggested stopping and getting hammered at an Irish pub, not far from where I lived. Actually, it was a bikers’ bar called Duffy’s, Irish in name only. A couple guys at the bar greeted me as we walked in. He said something about it as we slid into the booth. I nodded……”yeh, used to come here a lot with my ex, he practically lived here.”

“Still does,” I added. He turned and surveyed the room. His eyes landed on the surly guy behind the pool table with a cue stick in his hand. Who glared back and held eye contact. As my ex slowly sauntered over to our table, cue stick in hand, I felt the urge to go. “Going to the girl’s room,” I said. When I came back out, both of them were gone. Ditto for the other pool player. I walked over to the bar and order a beer. Time to figure out a way to get home.

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Blogging on blogs. Blahhhhg.

Over at Bend There Done That, Allegories in Life is talking about having to tell people she's straight just because she lives in the lesbo paradise that is Eugene, Oregon.

But she also says "Man or woman, it's just never a good idea to develop crushes on those you work closely with each day." OK, that sounds good in practice, but isn't it true that most relationships start in the workplace? We spend so much time there that it's the #1 place to meet people, right?

... Not that any of my workplace relationships have ever ended in anything but disaster, come to think of it ...

Also on BTDT, Write Up Your Alley (That handle has perverse connotations, does it not? Eh? Not? I'm a total perv? Fair. Not the first time I've been accused) takes a stand on the age old question, "Is it OK to post photos of your boyfriend's disgusting underwear on your blog?"

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MySpace Sucks

I had forgotten all about the hellish side of MySpace until I was cleaning out my messages last night.

Let me back up.

Once upon a time long long ago in a living room of a house I used to live in, I drunkenly hooked up with a guy I knew from firefighting. We used to work together. He was my boss. Of sorts. He was also rather attractive and knew it. We both did. Of course there was sexual tension the whole summer fighting fires. Of course he had a girlfriend. Of course she hated me even though I'd been nothing but pleasant and respectful.

Of course he didn't tell me they were still "on again off again dating" until the next morning.

"Huh. Interesting. So is the switch on or off this morning?" I asked.

"Uhhh. On. Yeah, on I guess. She would say on, so yeah. On," he replied.

Awesome.

Let me also back up to give some character development of this on-again-off-again girlfriend: She liked attention. She was loud. She was abrasive. She was attractive. She had a flair for drama. And if we had to go to blows, I might put my money on her and I don't often say that about other chicks.

In short, don't fuck with her man.

Which, I wouldn't have done had I known. But, he conveniently waited to tell until after the point of no return. Fucker.

So back to last night's mailbox cleaning.

I found the series of messages she sent in the weeks after. Oh boy. Here's a taste:

"Subject: O.P.P.

It has been brought to my attention that you had sex with the man who had been my partner for over four years. What's amusing is that he's been telling me for the last year that I'm gonna marry him and have his children. Fortunately for me, I learned (before making a big mistake) that I can't trust him.

While I primarily blame him (after all, he was my boyfriend)I also find you guilty of serious misconduct. Apparently you haven't learned or just aren't grown up enough to realise that you don't go around fucking other people's boyfriends. I must be honest, I never liked or trusted you from the beginning. It's too bad (for me at least) that I was right about you.

Let's face it, you wanted ___ from the beginning and I never tried to keep him from being your friend cause he always said he didn't find you the least bit attractive. Interesting how men can do that, screw woman they think aren't appealing. I guess one hole is as good as another if you're drunk enough and the lights are off so you don't have to see their face.

If this message hurts you in any way, I can't say that I'm sorry because nothing could describe the pain that I feel. Maybe you are laughing as you read this, or maybe you could give a shit; but on the chance that you have a shred of decency, I hope you take this to heart and realise the damage you have done. I would also take a moment to think about the fact that no bad deed goes unpunished, meaning that things have a way of coming back to you."

So ok. I felt bad. I mean, she has a point. And she even cleverly put a Naughty By Nature reference in the subject line. I didn't respond however; instead, I forwarded her message along to her "man" and said that perhaps he should look into it. He created the fucking mess after all. I thought he should be the one to clean it up.

But no. She didn't see it that way. Here's another:

"I want you to delete him as a friend from your myspace and never call him again. If you don't want to comply, I will show up on your doorstep and we can talk about it in person."

Show on my doorstep and talk about it in person? Um, no fucking way. Fuck you. Show up at my doorstep bitch?! That would be a bad idea. For both of us. Remember how I said I might put my money on you if it came to blows, yeah, not on my fucking doorstep. Bring it.

But again, I didn't respond. Simply forwarded it to her "man."

Thankfully all that died away. I haven't spoken much to him since, though he did text me a few weeks ago saying he'd be in town.

The best part? I found all the other messages from jilted girlfriends who felt it was my fault they were dating a shithead. Thank you MySpace. Thank you for allowing stupid bitches to send me ridiculous threats and for saving them for years.

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One night stand gone wrong

Most women have the occasional low self-esteem low points. Some women live in that space chronically; we call that having “daddy issues.” One of my worst low points wasn’t daddy related, it was wicked painful breakup related.

I went out solo one night, just because I couldn’t stand to be at home alone another night. My cats were starting to look at me like, “Girl, get the fuck out of here, you’re depressing us, and we’re cats. We always mope.”

So I was sitting alone at the bar, and in walks Chester. He looked vaguely familiar, and when he started talking to me, he told me why. Apparently he and I worked together, or at least for the same company. But we were in different departments, on different floors. We’d never met before, so we chatted for awhile, mostly about work.

No point getting into the nitty gritties here, you guys know where this is going. I got drunk. We made out in the park, we went back to his place. We fucked.

The thing is, he had a nice body. Tall, lean, strong, and, well, nice machinery. So in the morning, when he felt randy again and my head was still swimming in Coors Light and Jaeger bombs, I let him go for it again, and he got me off, again.

Then I looked around as morning filled the room, and memories started coming back to me. There, on the wall, was the picture of his daughter. She looked like maybe she had a touch of the down’s Syndrome. There, on the nightstand, was a photo of his girlfriend. She had Sally Jesse Rafael glasses. There, on another wall, was a poster: A wolf on a cliff, howling at a purple moon. And the thing is? I knew it wasn’t ironic.

I remembered how, the night before, he kept calling me sweetheart and asking if I was OK, if I was comfortable. In my wastedness, I giggled at him and asked why, “Well when an angel falls into your lap, you have to do what you can to hold on.”

As all this flooded back, all I could think was Oh, shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

So then he rolls over and tries to go down on me, again, which, I admit, I have a hard time turning down, but as sobriety reared its ugly head, I just needed out. I pushed him off, told him I needed a ride home.

“What’s wrong sweetheart? What happened?” he asked. I cringed when I looked over and saw his awful bowl cut. I remembered that he’d been wearing a Doors T-shirt last night. Tucked in.

Jesus Christ.

“I’m sorry, I just need to go,” I said, tearing around his room looking for clothes.

We got in his El Camino (I am NOT making this shit up). He drove me home. In the driveway, he paused, and seemed about ready to ask a question.

“So,” I said, “I don’t think we need to, like, talk about this. And I really don’t need you to tell anyone at work.”

“What, really? Just one night? That’s it?”

I felt like I was the man. And what I wanted to say was: “One night stand, pal, what do you think that means?”

What I said was: “Chester, you have a girlfriend.”

He nodded, but then tried to tell me again that they were on the outs.

“Nope, I’m sorry. I’ll see you around. Bye.”

I still see him at work from time to time. In the parking lot, or in the hallway. I try to avert my eyes, or just say, “hello,” in the exact same tone I use with all the people I don’t know, but he always smiles brightly. Wistfully, even.

I wonder if he’s told anyone sometimes. But then I think that even if he did, they probably wouldn’t believe him.

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Am I crazy or is he creepy?

I can't tell. I was just sitting there, minding my business late in the week, trying very hard not to beat my head against my keyboard, when an IM popped up on my screen.

He says:
Hey! Whatre you doing?

She says:
whipping some stuff out before I get out of here
and then tomorrow's FRIDAY

He says:
Yes it is!!! WOO HOO!!!!
big plans this holiday wekend?

She says:
Oh yeah
gardening
cleaning my floors
big stuff
Actually I might spend a night in a cabin on the Waccamaw
and do some kayaking
so that'll be good
Oh, you know, and being pious, of course
You?

He says:
LOL>...of course!!!
well...I cleaned floors last weekend so thais done...YEAH!!!
a little golf Frdiay and Saturday mongings...

She says:
Oh nice

He says:
and I do have to clean out the garage one day...BOOOOO

She says:
I hate chores

He says:
me too...

She says:
Why did I think they'd go away when I grew up?
I think I need to have kids. Make them start doing some dishes.

He says:
they just get more and more and more

She says:
srrsly

He says:
we need FUN in our life...hhhmmmmm

This is where I start to feel squeamish. I mean, OK. I like fun. But that long "hhhmmmmmm" felt like a hot breath across a phone line, right? That's not fun. It certainly ain't sexy. So I tried to keep it light and jokey. I figure, can't we all agree that work sucks, eh? Eh?

She says:
Oh, what, like work isn't FUN for you?
It doesn't bring you enough JOYJOYJOY?

He says:
there you go again..scarcasim...I LOVE IT!

She says:
I just can't help it
I'm glad someone around here appreciates it

He says:
I do...let it FLY!!!

She says:
ha
I still have to figure out different types of humor.
Not everyone thinks I'm hilarious, apparently.

He says:
i find you hilarous and interesting...

I don't want bald, married guys my dad's age to find me interesting. Especially if they can't spell for shit. Again, I retort with a joke.

She says:
Me, too!
That's why we get along

There's a pause, so I think it's over. Oh, no.

He says:
so.,...
tell me something unique

Um, what? Is this how old people flirt? Is he that bored? I hardly know this guy. He works in a different building. (I think his WIFE works in my building though.) Are we all of a sudden on Match.com? I play it safe by playing stupid.

She says:
??

He says:
lol
see...you haven't figured me out yet...I am haviong a tought ime with an outage over here and thoiught I would settle my stress by being silly wiht you
sorry

She says:
ahhhhh
I'm slow sometimes

He says:
not a problem...

OK, DIW. What is this? Am I being paranoid? Is he just so well-meaning and innocent and I'm the one projecting? Should I avoid this guy?

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