Jake P.I.

Do NOT go through my things… and if you do, be smart enough to cover your tracks

Above anything, I value intelligence, personal liberty and personal privacy. Accordingly, if you’re going to violate my personal liberty or privacy, be intelligent about it. I respect ingenuity, cunningness and something about attaining information via guile means turns me on. Probably to an unhealthy extent. However, if you’re stupid enough to leave file names in the viewing history or blatantly question me about Match.com emails (which I archived!), you’re a half-wit who won’t properly sustain my long-term interest and are therefore unworthy of my current affections. Game over. No mulligan.

Even more irritating than bad grammar or unkempt fingernails is opening my Microsoft Word to evidence that my personal files have been raped and pillaged. Right there in the file history: my creative pre-tax write-off list, my actual tax return, my responses to State complaints, my wedding vendor list from a previous engagement and my list of sexual partners. Never mind the fact that I buried these files in the abyss of my computer under such names as “Shakespearean Critiques,” “Senior Thesis,” and “High School Assembly Meeting #4.” And I thought Jake was being cool by encouraging my 2 hour grooming routine! HA! He was just securing time to violate my privacy.

I’m paranoid by nature. In fact, when I received an out-of-character early morning phone call from Jake 5 days after he played Jake P.I. and approximately 2 hours after I discovered this), I assumed he had an evening date lined up which wouldn’t permit him his predictable 7 PM call. Accordingly, I ignored him. Being the irrational, paranoid freak that I am, I decided to conduct a quick search on Match.com to see if this was indeed the means he used to secure his evening date. Men are simple creatures. Jake bviously read Match.com exchanges between me and other men and never so much as alluded to this fact. His pent-up aggression and irritation was going somewhere. Jake is NOT my boyfriend; we never discussed not seeing other people. However, my last actual boyfriend was obtuse or emotional enough to actually interrogate me on archived emails. He didn’t need to retaliate. He just needed answers. My response? Please leave. Jake and I are somewhat alike in personality, so I suspected his reprisal would be exactly what I would have done in his situation. Turns out, Newton was a semi-wise man and I am a very wise woman; in dating, to every action there is has an EQUAL reaction. Jake signed up for Match.com. Not only did he sign up, he managed to turn back the clock 6 years without the assistance of Botox. Again, what a dummy. 29 years old. Ha.

Now, I’m the Queen of Shifting Through Your Shit. I even hold myself to the same standards. I pick my battles and make sure to cover my tracks so well that CSI would be stumped. Well, unless I’m two bottles of wine in…

Several years ago, after several Match.com dates as pleasant as an anal fissure, I canceled my $30/month membership and jokingly began soliciting dates through the Work Section of my Facebook profile.

“I probably work less than half the hours you do for more than twice the pay. I’m ranked #1 in Michigan and #4 in the country in my professional arena. Unfortunately, my benefits are extremely limited or nonexistent is perhaps the better word (let’s try to start our union with integrity intact); accordingly, I am now accepting applications for a future husband who has a company sponsored 401k and health plan. Those with advanced degrees and the ability to generate large sums of money with minimal effort are especially encouraged to apply.”

Doug was the first to respond. From my Activities and Interests sections, he deduced that my pastimes and hobbies are limited to politics and drinking. This turned him on immensely and he demanded the Husband Application almost immediately. I misjudged the idiocy of the 20-something male; I didn’t mean that I literally had an application for prospective husbands to fill out. Hell, after my last failed attempt, I’m not even sure if I believe in the traditional institution of marriage. I just wanted to date an actual interesting, intelligent, non-psycho. Without considering the fact a Husband Application would probably only attract the polar opposite of what I was looking for, I went ahead and drafted a little 12 pager. Doug responded with wit and a certain obscure hilariousness that made his Jewish afro almost appealing. We went out. We did shots. We did some more shots. I had to crash on his couch. No seriously, there was no nakedness. I decided after the 4th shot that I’m not ready to forsake Jesus for health insurance. Michigan educated or not. Even so, 4:30 AM rolled around and I decided to play Vanessa P.I.

“What are you doing?" Doug forced his bathroom door open and stared at me with the type of shock usually reserved for cheesy horror film actresses.

Half naked, sitting next to my soaking wet jeans (I can’t explain that), amidst the personal belongings formerly housed in Doug's briefcase, which were strewn across the bathroom floor with the toenail clippings and hairballs, I slurred: “Investigating. Go back to bedddd.”

He did. No questions asked.

I woke up in Doug's roommate’s closet, my hair extensions rolling around like tumbleweeds, completely soaked. Perhaps I tried to sober up with a fully clothed shower? Who knows. Doug said he found me endearing and offered to make breakfast. Ahhh, the naivety of college boys. I declined, bolted and deleted his phone number from my BlackBerry. He attempted to ask me out a few more times but finally resigned when I sent him a Facebook message informing him:

“My behavior was completely unacceptable and you should delete me from your life. In an attempt to assist with this task, I am unfriending you and have already deleted you from my phone. Learn some self-respect and take care.”

I was utterly disgusted with myself for getting caught and even more so with Doug for donning my behavior as acceptable. Even though I suspect my performance had more to do with my sense of entitlement, drunkenness and inability to assume accountability for my actions than idiocy, while walking to my car that drizzly Sunday morning I promised myself that I would not tolerate such actions from a man.

Accordingly, I returned Jake's phone call around 4 PM, when I knew he would be consuming his 4th mini-meal of the day.

“Hi, babe, what’s up?” he sing-songed with a full mouth. Hot.

“No, no. What have YOU been up to besides going through my computer files and discovering the fountain of youth? 29, huh? I mean, reeeeaaaallllyyyy, if you were a tree, according to the rings on your forehead you’d be 40.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t huh me, slick. You’re an idiot. I hope Match works out well for you because I most certainly am not going to!” Click.

If you’re dumb enough to get caught, you’re not intelligent enough to date. Similarly, if you’re dumb enough to want to date me after catching me, you’re not intelligent enough to date.

GAME OVER for Jake.