F-ing It Up at YogurtLand...

is a bad time to woo a woman. I'm one of those guys that sample cups are not an option at self-serve yogurt joints: they are a requirement. I yank on those silver handles like the conductor of a locomotive yanks on the whistle. Sure, I'm abusing the system a tad. By the time I'm finished, my three sample cups are dripping with my own spit and tracks of Honeydew Tart and White Chocolate Mousse.

Frozen yogurt is a fairly gluttonous vice...at least the way I eat it. And just my luck, the charming young lady who works next-door to my school walked into the shop right when I was pulling the lever for non-fat coconut.

The woman and I have made eye contact every now and then, and she apparently thought this was the perfect time to make a formal introduction. She recognized me, which at any other time would greatly increase my wooing powers.

But I got over-excited by the woman—and a little by the yogurt—and I misjudged my sample cup placement. There's little room for error! An entire glob landed in the palm of my hand and began trickling between my fingers.

I became frantic. I scampered across shop to the cashier for napkins. There's still time. Maybe she hasn't seen the mess. I grabbed a napkin from the male cashier as fast as I could, drying the white, tropical flavor from my hand. But it was too late. I smiled at her like an adolescent boy who forgot to lock the bedroom door. And through her look of confusion and disgust, she returned an awkward grin.

Once I had finished my clean-up, I thought of going over to her and shaking hands over a name exchange. But the residual stickiness from the yogurt hindered my confidence. Unusual textures can ruin a salutation, like shaking hands with someone right after they come out of the bathroom. Nasty if their hands are wet; nasty if their hands are dry.

I sheepishly hid in the corner of the shop, pretending to have such a deep focus on my flavor selection that she would leave me alone. Luckily and unluckily, it worked. She paid and left without saying a word.

On the way out, trying to save some face, I jokingly asked the cashier if the yogurt explosion in the hand happens a lot.

"Dude, not really."

Fighting Off Food Poisoning...

is a bad time to woo a woman. We rested peacefully together until the sharp, compressing pains grabbed my entire lower body. It was the pain of 100 crunches while holding in a bowel movement.

I slide out from her pink duvet and made my way to the bathroom with only pinches of streetlight to guide me. Have you ever tried to navigate someone else's apartment at night while there was a #2 deadline? It's deadly.

And the food poisoning was so gut-wrenching that when I did finally make it to the toilet, I couldn't push. So I sat, pain-curled into the fetal position, too sick to move and too gnarled to release the building pressure. Until I did.

It was one of those valve releases that makes you happy toilet bowls provide 360 degrees of catching ability. In third grade, I always thought the fart noises made on the arm were too rich and sonorous to be actual farts, but last night, even a circular breather, on the squishiest of arm fat could not have compared to my symphony.

After my four or fives waves of attack, thinking the mayhem complete, I reached for the TP. That was then I threw up.

I held the vomit in my mouth, my left hand covering my embouchure like a hand suppressing a giggle in church. Since I was already on the toilet, I assumed I could vent accurately between my legs to the tainted water below.

3 AM does funny things to the mind. I ended up spewing onto my lap.

So using about half her fancy $5-a-roll toilet paper and frigid sink water, I cleaned acid-masticated pork shoulder and half-digested frozen yogurt from my thighs and butt. Usually I highly distaste feces and vomit, recoiling from even the slightest hint of either. But with both seeping under my fingernails and into the folds behind my knees, I really only cared about getting back into a warm bed.

Feeling woozy, I wobbled my way back to her pristine bedroom. And with my eyes slowly readjusting, I made out her upright figure in the darkness. "Oh my god. That sounded disgusting. Maybe you should go sleep on the couch in case something else happens."

Dejected, I made up a spot on her couch. At least she didn't make me go home. But next Saturday night, I'm sure I'll be going solo.

When My Dog is Going Poo...

is a bad time to woo a woman. It was one of those unfortunate days where my poor dog was cooped up in the apartment for 9 hours straight. When I unlocked the front door, he immediately ran to the foyer, ignoring me completely, and stared at his leash hanging on his "Hug a Pug" hook.

Being a stubbornly territorial dog, I knew he had to poo urgently when he only marked one bush before arching his back and relaxing his behind. I reached into my coat pocket and began uncrinkling an old Safeway bag. As I was checking for holes in my plastic-bag pooper scooper, I noticed a girl walking in the park. And with my fecal-laced luck, she happened to be the adorably captivating girl that lives in B building.

In keeping with the season, yet fashionable, she wore a baby blue hoodie zipped halfway. And with the oscillating San Jose winter weather being on the rise, she wore those trendy shorts that had "SJSU" printed on the seat. Her rusty red hair was in a half-pony tail, and she walked quickly with her toned physique that implied she was exercising.

We've exchanged glaces across the courtyard before, and I once tried to talk to her, but the gate to our complex snapped shut too quickly. So when she gave an arm-akimbo, coy wave in my direction, I was a flutter.

Only then did I remember I was holding a Safeway bag.

She was about 50 feet away. Should I meet her halfway and leave the poo until after my courtship? But maybe she saw my dog "do the deed"; she would think me socially irresponsible for leaving the litter on the ground.

30 feet. Pick up the poo? Pick up the poo and have concentric circles of funk around me as I spoke to her for the first time? Have the curling smell of excrement associatively tied to the first impression of me?

10 feet. I surrendered. I embarrassingly snatched the poo off the ground. My nervous grip tighter than usual. The feces gently squished between my fingers thinly gloved by plastic. She was close enough to vocalize a greeting, but, instead, I waved sheepishly. And as fast as I could walk without looking like I was retreating, I shuffled away dragging my confused dog behind me.

There will have to be another day to invite her to a Saturday-night dinner.

Ordering a Chipotle Burrito...

is a bad time to woo a woman. After a particularly difficult Friday at work, I decided to treat myself to a Chipotle burrito for dinner. I walked the familiar four blocks to the Mexican Grill only to be surprised by a stunning new employee preparing the food.

I don't usually associate Mexican-food establishments with beautiful women, but, dear reader, believe me, she is beautiful.

It was her eyes; blue is not a color typically found in the metallic chromes and dusty maroons of Chipotle decor. She had enchantingly curly hair that most women pray for with curling irons and $50 bottles of hairspray. And I smelled the hint of white plums over the stench of carnitas fat and steamed tortillas.

I approached her ashamed that I chose to wear a white tank top and basketball shorts from the 1990s.

"Can I have a chicken fajita burrito, please?" She nodded her head and smiled. Her shiny pink lips curled into a crescent smile. She pulled a tortilla from the bag and flipped it into the steamer. She pressed down and waited.

This is my chance. I have 15, maybe 20, seconds to catch her attention.

I asked her, "How's your day going?" You'd be surprised how such a simple question receives such a friendly response from most women. Perhaps the non-sexually aggressive nature of the question is the root of its genius when trying to converse with women.

We chatted while my tortilla steamed. She laughed when I gently made a joke. She responded when I asked her 1st-date questions. Things were going well...

And then the burrito came between us.

"Can I have more sour cream than that?" Why would I ask such a question? All my planned smiles. All my carefully chosen words. All my effort and charm lost on a question that made me look prissy and picky and fat.

"Umm. Sure." She dolloped on another few ounces, but the tone noticeably changed. No more eye contact. No more playful tug-of-war. It may sound ridiculously fickle on her part, but all single people out there will confirm that a wrong word can mean the difference between affection and rejection.

She and I seemed to have a natural rapport. Any other place or time, things would have gone better. I love women. But I love big burritos too. I just wish I knew how to prioritize my desires.

Wallowing in my failure, I saved half my precious big burrito for Saturday night dinner.

Getting a Speeding Ticket...

is a bad time to woo a woman.

I was on a first date with a gal. First dates are one of those rare times where the intense feelings of nervousness and anxiety must be channeled into abnormal amounts of charm and smoothness. Girls assume guys will be on their best behavior on a first date. So if a guy uses a salad fork at the wrong time or uses a tiny swear word in casual dialogue, the girl assumes he is irreparably boorish and foul-mouthed. Romantic first impressions are everything.

We were driving up 101 heading to the restaurant. I was multitasking in the car: trying to wipe my sweaty palms on my pants, looking suave while driving, keeping the radio on songs that show my taste in music, and engaging her in stimulating conversation.

And then, flickering blue and red light flooded the cabin of my car.

"God dammit. Crappy popo." Oops. First date. Ah well, she'll understand.

The officer strolled up to my window. "You know what you did wrong back there?" It was like a human talking to a dog.

"Yeah. Speeding." Just give me my ticket and let me go. Of all the bad times to be emasculated and toyed with. I have a first date riding shotgun, and she gets to see me dominated by another man.

He was a tall CHP officer. I wished he was one of those fat officers, so at least I would look physically fit in comparison. But of course he was buff. Tall. Sunglasses. Giant man hands.

"Caught you doing 75." Really? That's actually not that fast considering my mind was more on her legs than the road.

He moved in closer to take my license and registration. His crotch was right on my nose. He was so close, I could smell his zipper. It was like my first day in prison, and he was my cellmate. What a charming image for my lovely date, who by now was noticing the tears of anger and regret filling the corners of my eyes.

After he had his way with me, he condescendingly tapped his palm on the roof of my car and said, "Try driving more slow, sir." More slowly, dumbass.

I felt a conquered "Yes, sir" leak through the gaps of my teeth clenched by hatred.

I pulled back into traffic, ears flushed red with rage and frustration. Silk shirt tie-dyed with sweat. "God dammit," I muttered. Then I remembered I had elegant company in the car.

I turned to her. "Sorry. I just hate cops."

"My dad's a cop." Of course he is.

Guess how Saturday night dinner went.

All You Can Eat Crab Night...

is a bad night to woo a woman. A few nights ago, my buddy and I stopped for an impromptu dinner at a seafood buffet. "Hey, man, pull over. I could go for some crab and fish and shit." My friend made a convincing argument.

Buffets not on the Strip or an Indian reservation are usually pretty bad, so my buddy and I didn't expect first-class food or high-class customers.

But then our server brought us our waters, and in a seafood buffet of low-caliber people, she was lovely Excalibur.

She wore her hair in a bun to keep it out of the food, but you could tell it was beautiful. Her hair was brown like the color of sand right after the ocean receded with the tide. She had calming seafoam green eyes, and hands as gentle as seaweed. Even though there were seven other servers wearing identical uniforms, she wore that navy shirt and khaki uniform in a way that drowned me.

32 crabs legs later, we were ready to leave. But on the way out, I realized that I had to say something to this girl beyond, "Yeah, we have everything we need."

I walked up to her and initiated the conversation by talking about how great the crab was. After about 30 seconds of filler material, I made my move. Through my sheepish smile, I told her that I thought she was pretty, and I asked if she would like to get a drink after her shift.

"I'm sorry, but no." No excuses. Pure denial. I respect that.

She saw me digging through mediocre crab wearing one of those seafood bibs. She saw me using the crab's own claws to extract the meat like I was a neanderthal discovering a tool. She saw me hunched over my plate sucking on crab legs like they were straws. And when I confessed to her, I think I had bits of carapace stuck to my chin.

A charming man would have forgone the meal and spoken to the woman without the crab stink clinging to his clothing. But I'm no charmer...plus, I wasn't about to waste $8.99. I guess the cheap seafood buffet cost me an entrance fee and a date with Tethys herself.

Needless to say, Saturday night dinner, at best, will be with a male buddy.

An Unannounced Pop-In...

to my apartment is a bad time to woo a woman. We all have crushes on women, but things get infinitely more complex when the object of our affection decides to show up randomly at our domiciles.

I swung open the front door wearing a ratty tank top from the 1990s expecting it to be the Fedex guy with my package of recently purchased Family Guy DVDs. And there she was: Beautiful, adorable, and available.

"You wanna watch a movie or something?" she said holding two red envelopes from Netflix. I couldn't turn her away, but my apartment was unprepared for a woman. I picked my poison: I invited her in.

Even though I held the door open for her, I tried to stay a step ahead of her. I swept my dirty boxers into the closet, but while I was doing that, she noticed the Diet Root Beer cans organized like bowling pins on my coffee table. "Oops. I had a few guys over last night." I tried to grab all ten cans at once, but I ended up dripping some backwash soda on the carpet.

"Hey. Can I use your bathroom?" she asks over the clang of cans in the kitchen sink. "Umm. Sure. Just give me one sec." I rushed into the bathroom and flushed because I had pee pee stewing in the toilet in an attempt to save Hetch Hetchy Reservoir. I crumpled up my Maxim bathroom reading and shoved it under the sink. There wasn't time to wash the toothpaste spittle from mirror, so I prayed she just wouldn't notice.

She came out of the bathroom while I was still trying to button up the new dress shirt I pulled from the closet. "Maybe this isn't a good movie night. We'll try it again another time," she said halfway out the door.

Even now, I'm not sure if it was the underwear, the garbage, the unsanitary bathroom, or simply the overall funk of single-guy apartment. But whatever it was, I'll be eating Saturday-night dinner alone.

Having a Cavity Filled...

is a bad time to woo a woman. Loyal readers will remember the Toothy Chair from about a week ago. Bad news: I had a cavity. And wouldn't you know it? My dental hygienist today was a 20-something-year-old cutie.

Meeting women is hard enough, but the deck is stacked against me further when I'm trying to court the woman who is scraping Snickers from between my teeth.

The very act of having a cavity says, "I am unable to handle the responsibilities of my personal hygiene." I mean, the average person doesn't care about teeth as long as they aren't meth-addict teeth. But the dental hygienist? Teeth cleanliness is her livelihood. As soon as she read my chart, "Mr. Rhapsode - Cavity" she knew I was incapable of a mature relationship.

While actually having the procedure, I'm lying parallel to the ground with her hovering over me. This is not a flattering angle. I'm not saying I have an over abundance of boogers, but if I happened to have one, she would be staring at it for a good hour while the dentist drills my face. My hair gets all rumpled from the napkin covered headrest, and the bright lamp dangling above reveals my bumpy complexion.

And to cap off my first impression, she tells me to "rinse and spit" into that tiny sink while half my face droops from the numbness. I sip the water slowly and purse my lips—or so I think. But of course, spit, water, and tooth shavings dribble out of my mouth and onto my shirt. She chuckles a motherly laugh and dabs up the pathetic mess with my dental bib. Smooth.

Needless to say, I'll be eating dinner alone this Saturday night.