The Ex's Series: Volume I - The Manchild

[Ed. Note: This is the first post of my “Tales of My Ex’s Series”. Feel free to meet the cast of characters and catch up.]

My parents despised him from the moment they first laid eyes on him. If you are a male suitor who wishes to date me, my family has to approve, even if it’s halfhearted approval at best. Make no mistake about it- three strikes and you are out. If my mother, father, and brother all don’t like you, then you’re absolutely doomed. If only one likes you, then you’re still doomed, but at least you’ll be allowed to hang out for a little bit longer than most.

Manchild was an exception to this rule, because all three of my family members instantly took an extreme dislike to him, yet I kept him around for three solid months. I usually don’t bring new guys around my parents under at least the 6 month mark, but Manchild showed no qualms about showing up at my place of residence knowing that in doing so, he’d run into mom and dad.

My mother pursed her lips like she was being force fed lemons when she shook his hand for the first time. My father gave him an intense, unfeeling stare down, and said his greetings in a low voice all while squeezing his hand in an ironclad grip. My brother immediately voiced his disapproval two weeks into our “relationship” when they met at a tiny get together at the apartment I was leasing for 6 weeks from my friend. My brother is one of the harshest critics of my male companions, and this case was no exception. Manchild was sized up within two minutes flat and deemed as a complete and utter “tool”. I wish I had seen then what I see now.

The Manchild: Background

Name: Manchild
Relationship with Moi: June-August 2006 (R.I.P.)
Height: 6’3
Age: Then- 24
Grin: Lopsided
Hair: Short and dark
Eyes: Dark brown, almost black
Wardrobe: Lacoste polos in a rainbow of colors (have to be able to be ‘popped’); Puka Shell necklace; pre-ripped Abercrombie jeans; Nike flip flops; Omega watch; and a belt that looks like a freaking lanyard from (of course) Abercrombie.


[Not pictured: Manchild's face. This is to protect the innocent.]

Background: Russian Jew (Russian?!! RUSSIAN?!!? After what they did to my family? I KNOW. Triflin’).

Location: Northern Suburbs next to Michael Jordan and apartment in downtown Chicago

Job: Job? *Blinks* He worked? Not that he needed a job anyway. Mom and dad gave him his millions when he turned 21. The rest of his fortune? Yeah he’ll get that when he gets married. He “worked” a few hours a week for a Chicago night life publication, trying to sell ad space, and handing out their booklets to anyone who cared. Since no one did, this meant that he always had boxes of those mini magazines strewn all over his apartment and in his car, and that in his 4 hours of work a day (if he felt like actually going) he drove around to a few places and after getting shut down, would go home and complain to me about it.

Favorite Boy Band: N’Sync, and could sing the words to any song on any album. He was soooo over BSB, duhhh.

How many drinks needed to get sloshed to the point where he’d say stupid crap and I might have to carry him home: 3.5 beers, or 1 margarita

Known for: Chipotle, skiing, “party planning” (total joke), bragging, being neurotic, pretending like he was cool, wearing the same clothes over and over, throwing tantrums, being lazy, not having a job, proclivity to frequent gay bars and drop his pants pretty much anywhere (I don’t even want to talk about it, I’m still scarred), and how much of a tool he is.

Fact: Was stingy about the stupidest things. He would call me up and tell me how he dropped $800 that day on stupid nonsensical garbage, but then would freak out if we were out to dinner with friends and he had to contribute more than $25. Are you kidding me?

Fact: If he didn’t get his way about something, there was always hell to pay. Like the time my best friend from Kindergarten, Manchild and I went mini-golfing. We rolled up into the parking lot and it was super crowded. Two-thirds of us wanted to leave. Manchild went apeshit and practically caused a riot so we waited it out. And then afterwards he demanded we stop and get a pint of his favorite Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, Phish Food. But guess what? Walgreens was out of said flavor, what about picking out something else? NO. We had to find another grocery store so he would shut the eff up.

Fact: Towards the end of things he oftentimes would ask if we could walk down the street from my temporary apartment (at the time I was living in Chicago’s Boystown neighborhood) and stop in various gay bars. One of his guy friends always came with us. And he always pulled me aside and said that he was 90% sure Manchild was gay or questioning. After two of these incidents I started to believe him.

Fact: HE made ME go with him to see "John Tucker Must Die". In the theaters.

*Oh Der Moment #1: When he almost put aluminum foil in the microwave. I lunged across the kitchen in slow motion going “NNOOOOOOOOOO!” while flailing my arms like I was a spaz drowning in three feet of water. His reaction? “Oh… I can’t put foil in the microwave? I thought that only pertained to metal.” ……..

*Oh Der Moment #2: He called me up one day and asked me how to deposit a check into his checking account. He was at Bank of America, and didn’t know “what to fill out, or what to do” in order to get this done. He didn’t even know that you have to sign the back of a check addressed to you in order to cash it. When I laughed out loud and thanked him for wasting my time, he paused and then reiterated that he was serious. That he’s never had to pay his own bills, balance a checkbook, or step foot inside a bank. Why? Because his private accountants do all that for him. All he has to do is swipe the plastic and sign on the dotted line.

*Oh Der Moment #3: As I mentioned in the first few paragraphs, he met my brother at a small get-together of mine. A get-together in which some people decided to take some hits off of some rather special cigarettes (if you catch my drift). Well this 3 drink wonder decided “Hey, maybe today is a great day for me to first experiment with drugs!” and took some rather huge hits while I was in the kitchen shotgunning a beer. Next thing I know he’s laying in my bed, alternating between crying and giggling, and is a 6 foot 3 bumbling mess of a human being. How did it get worse? When we had to walk 10 blocks to get food with his ginormous self leaning with almost 100% of his weight onto my 5 foot 5 shoulders. His high and drunk self drooped over me like a blanket, laughing and singing like a freaking five year old. There is something seriously wrong with that situation, and innately disturbing. If my brother had seen that, the Manchild wouldn’t have been standing any longer.

The Party: Hi, Mr. Jordan, I see you!

Halfway through that fateful summer Manchild decided to throw a party at his parents’ palatial spread up in the suburbs. Why? Because his parents spend at least four months out of the year in Europe, and would be none the wiser. This was the first time I met all of Manchild’s friends and cohorts. I was in for a real surprise.

I pulled up in Manchild’s subdivision with my friend A in tow. The first thing we laid eyes on was a gate with the number “23” emblazoned on the front. Why, hello, Michael Jordan’s driveway!

I then drove five feet to the right and pulled into the Manchild’s immense horseshoe-shaped driveway. A guy with an earpiece walkie, sunglasses, and a clipboard approached my car. I rolled down the window and he informed me that he was the party’s valet driver, and to give him my keys. I was dumbfounded. Having no other choice, I handed over my keys, signed a sheet stating my license plate and car make, and was told to walk around to the back.

[Not pictured: half of Manchild's house due to foilage. For serious.]

Manchild then had a BOUNCER guarding the entrance to the pool area. He also had a clipboard, a walkie, and a guest list. You had to show ID and be on the list to get in. What the hell was this? Fort Knox? That’s when I also noticed that there were people acting as security guards prowling around the property.

Want to know the recipe for a party filled with douchebags? Add valet drivers, security, bouncers, people who wear their Bluetooth earpieces ALL THE TIME, don’t know how to drink but pretend they can, and watch the fun. I found out that two of Manchild’s male friends had slept with 150+ girls each, and pride themselves in prowling the local high schools for fresh meat. A lot of high school girls therefore showed up at this party. I was so disgusted I seriously almost threw up. Other guy friends of his thought they were DJs (definition: "Hi, I play CDs on my laptop and own a fog machine!) and constantly reminded people to address them “by their DJ name only”, and then bragged about how they had tickets to the Avril Lavinge concert. I was in hell.

The highlights of that night included me doing drunken laps in his pool absolutely hammered out of my skull, and whipping everyone’s ass at beer pong. It was almost too easy. My friends and I cleaned up house. Then at 3 a.m. a drunk high school female decided that it would be a good idea to run naked outside onto Manchild’s street, and run up to a car that was trying to vacate the neighborhood.

Whose car was that? One of Michael Jordan’s sons, no big deal. Yes, we all ran outside to see a naked chick leaning over the cracked window of an idling Mercedes Benz, chatting up a storm. I thought Manchild was going to have a nuclear meltdown.

The next morning, all of us who crashed and spent the night were in the kitchen eating Hot Pockets and downing orange juice. Some of the guys were spraying Reddi Whip straight into their mouths and throwing things from the fridge into the floor. I’m telling you, these people were downright rude. However, it was all pretty minor compared to when Manchild flipped his shit.

That’s when I first learned of his rage issues. He went from zero to 60 in two seconds flat. He grabbed his Oakleys off of his head and spiked them onto the tile, smashing the glass and plastic into tiny shards. He started screaming that he was going to kill all of them and to “get the F*CK out of my house, everyone get out but Kayleigh!!”.

I stood there in a doorway, shaking with fright as he stormed away and punched a bathroom door on his way out. A was in there throwing up and quivering in a hungover mess and was immensely startled when the bathroom door literally bowed and splintered from his fists. His entire house (seriously, entire thing) was white, from the walls to the furniture to the decorations to the cabinets, appliances and tile. It was like his family lived in one big white padded room. I’ll never forget seeing the fragments of black glasses strewn about the all white world that was his house.

The End

All good things must come to an end, right? Things started to get dicey in mid-August. On one of these particular dicey occasions I was out clubbing with my friends downtown, and got so drunk that I was disoriented and lost. I started wandering outside when I couldn’t find my friends, and called him and asked if I could take a cab to his place. I have no idea how I got there, but upon arrival I suddenly noticed that I had a steak burrito in my hand (score?) and obtained a new found spunk.

I marched into his place all feisty and drunk at 3 a.m. His friend Chris (alias: DJ Superman) was over, hanging out and watching TV. I ate three bites of my burrito and then decided that it would be a good idea to be a total train wreck. In my drunken luscious state I started laying in to Manchild and making fun of him. Before I knew it I was alternating bites of burrito and swigs of Miller Lite with “You know what, Manchild? You are a total f*cktard!!!”.

Chris started laughing so hard that he cried and fell off of his chair. Not enjoying being scorned, Manchild demanded that I put my half-eaten burrito in the fridge. I then pranced into Manchild’s kitchen, opened his fridge, and chucked the rest of my burrito into it like I was the pitcher for the Yankees. The burrito made contact with the back wall of the fridge and splattered beans, sour cream, and carne asada debris all over every available surface. I slammed the fridge door shut, and then went into the main room. I then looked at Manchild and innocently said "Look! I put the burrito in the fridge!". He stared at me, and after about 15 seconds uttered ".....I know."

I then kicked a lamp he had underneath his kitchen table, which promptly shattered into oblivion. Then I passed out.

The last time I saw him was for the Chicago Air and Water Show, which we watched from his building’s roof. When I arrived that day I had already decided that I never wanted to see or talk to him again. The F-16 fighter jets flew directly over our heads and broke the sound barrier as I chowed down on free burgers and amused myself. I hugged him goodbye and knew that I would never see him again. And I liked it.

Soon after some of his friends called me and let me know that Manchild was back to his “old tricks” and dating 17 year olds. So much to my chagrin, I discovered post-relationship that Sir Manchild really liked the younger womens. What a creepy douchecake.

In my defense:

The following things were fun/nice:
-Rollerblading/biking together on the lake front path
-Dancing to Frank Sinatra together in his apartment
-Sharing pints of ice cream on the couch in sweats
-Playing Donkey Kong Country for Super NES on Saturday mornings
-Making dinner and eating it at his apartment and watching fireworks simultaneously

-Notes that he’d leave for me that went as follows:
“K,

Thinking of you and can’t wait to see you tonight. I miss you already!

Xoxo,
M”
-And cuddling. Wow, was he a cuddler.

[Ed. Note: Hope you enjoyed the illustrations.]