Wicked or Wiley?

I recently met a woman who seemed extraordinarily bright, was very pretty, and had what appeared to be a great job in mortgage finance.

After a couple dates, the relationship kicked into a hyper-accelerated pace. She lived in a rough part of town, so I offered to let her stay at my place from time to time.

I cook a lot, and would make dinner for her every night. This is not a chore for me. I love to cook. She basically set up residence in my condo. I sort of hoped she would pick up after herself, maybe avail herself to wash the dishes from the night before, or even make the bed. It became evident that she wanted nothing to do with any of these simple things.

I make a fair amount of money and enjoyed taking her out for drinks or concerts, paying for everything. But she would never offer to pay for even a cab ride.

I took three nights out of my busy schedule and helped her move an enormous amount of crap to her new place. (I offered.) We're talking dusty psychology textbooks, old blenders, a mega stuffed Tweety Bird, and a huge poster bed. It gets more bizarre.

She claims to have been in the Air Force as an intelligence officer, who then did security operations for Microsoft. She claims to have received her undergrad degree in criminal psychology from a now-defunct university.

Did it cross my mind that she might have done some stripping or escort work on the side? You bet. I've got no evidence to support this theory.

Our fucked-up relationship came to a bizarre head during a New Year's Eve party. I invited a bunch of friends and colleagues over, along with my "girlfriend." Folks liked her, but she ended up getting trashed and called a guy "friend" of hers, whom she immediately became very clingy with. I overheard her ask him if he would take her home. In the end, they ended up leaving together.

I ask you: Just what the hell was this woman up to?

Used and Abused

Hmmm. You offered to let her stay at your place, you claim you enjoyed picking up the tab, and then you volunteered to help move her stuffed-animal collection across town. It would seem that, yes, perhaps she took advantage of your generosity, but it doesn't sound like you objected too strenuously until she got bored at your shindig and demanded a friend drive her home.

Now this is advice I generally dole out to women, frustrated when their boyfriends don't intuitively know what it is they're pissed off about. I learned a long time ago that people are thick (sometimes willfully so), and if something is bothering you, you must inform that person. If you wanted her to pick up her scuzzy skivvies or wash a dish, you should've mentioned this to her. Aloud. I certainly don't wait for my man to psychically divine that I want him to empty his stankass ashtray or rub my stankass feet. I ask!

That you jump to the conclusion she must be a stripper or hooker is bizarre and insulting to those sex professionals who actually work very hard for their money. The fact that an adult woman had a gigantic stuffed bird and claimed to be a former intelligence operative suggests not a career in the bedroom arts but that she is completely deranged.

You ask what this woman was up to. I'll tell ya; she wanted a nice guy to cook for her, clean for her, fuck her, and help her move. And she got it.

You can shuffle down Victim Boulevard if you insist, but I wouldn't waste too much time loitering. You don't sound like a stupid guy; it must have become obvious fairly soon into this that your date was a bit lacking in the sanity department. You just chose to ignore all the myriad warning signs she kept pulling out of her bum. If it helps, think of it this way: You got laid—and off a crazy broad! Nutty dames are notorious for being 10 times wilder in the sack than us Sane Janes. And compared to most of the tales of woe I field, yours is strictly amateur hour. Onward, my friend!

Don't waste time! Write Dategirl at dategirl@seattleweekly.com or c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western Ave., Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.

 
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