Blowjob Week and Terrible Lying

I came over in pj's and crawled onto his couch.

Me: So this week is blowjob week.

Wil: Blowjob week?
Me: Yeah. You know, that time of month.
Wil: Oh! I call that shark week!
Me: Ha! That’s awesome.
Wil: Because of blood and fish…
Me: No, I got it. I might have to steal that one.
Wil: You steal everything.

I don’t remember what we were doing. Watching South Park? Comic Book Men? Thor? But after a long pause he looked… depressed.

Me: Why do you look so sad?

Wil: I hate blowjob week!
Me: I never heard a guy say hate and blowjob in the same sentence. Unless teeth were involved.
Wil: Well, I do. It means no sex. How long does this week last?
Me: Like 4 days top.

He huffed and crossed his arms, looking at me suspiciously as if I had purposefully caused this to happen.

Me: Look. I don’t even want this uterus. Or these eggs. Babies are horrifying and I want no part of them. This bleeding is pointless as far as I am concerned.

He glared at me.

Me: At least I bleed hard for two days and then it’s mostly over.

His face turned to disgust and he backed away.

Wil: Ah! Don’t talk to me about that! What is wrong with you? Don’t you know guys are like 7^th graders when it comes to this topic? We do NOT want to hear about it.

Me: Ok. Ok. But at least you can get off. I am the one that truly suffers here.

Wil drew down his eyebrows and stuck out his lip.

Wil: I. Hate. Blowjob. Week.

I have to admit, at first I was confused by this. (Then again, I am confused by almost everything he does.) I thought he would be happy. Part of me may be broken but the rest of me was functional. And what guy doesn’t like 4 days of sitting back and not having any pressure to perform? But in a way it made sense. Wil was a man, of course he loved blowjobs. What he didn't like was being told what he couldn't have. He was definitely a strange person. 

And don’t get me wrong. I found his hatred of blowjob week adorable. This is where his true charm lies, actually. He thinks it is in his cocky attitude, his flirty demeanor, his quick wit. But he is wrong. It is in these real moments, when he openly pouts, gets childishly excited, or the few seconds he has shown me his ‘serious’ side. And I like that he doesn’t know this (although now I just fucking ruined it for the sake of blogging). It gives me a sense of whom I am really dealing with without him having any control over my perception.

So how did blowjob week go, you ask? It was 4 days of Wil giving me ‘how dare you’ looks and occasionally shaking his head at me. Yep. Apparently, he and my uterus were not on good terms. Don’t worry, they have since made up.

In other Wil news, here is a conversation from last night.

Wil: I like that you give me my space.

Me: Why wouldn’t I? I trust you. Plus, I spent the last year building a social life and enjoying my own alone time. I don’t want to lose that.
Wil: Good. Me neither. Most girls get upset, though.  
Me: Actually, I am kidding. It does upset me. I need you spend every day with me. Every day. If you don’t, I will bitch at you and make your life miserable. I will also make unreasonable demands on you and judge you for your lifestyle.
Wil: Now you sound like a female.
Me: I am being serious. Every god damn day.

For a moment he looked at me like I had lost my mind and then he smiled.

Wil: You really are a terrible liar.

And I am. Unless I am drunk and cops are involved. Or when I have a gun pointed at me because some Englishman thinks I am a gypo camping out on his property. Then my lying is Oscar worthy. You’d be impressed.

The Threesome Whisperer

AN UPDATE TO MY LAST BLOG

 

Every now and then, one of the few friends that has access to this blog will text me trying to guess who people are. Here were the texts I got today:

Cali Girl (CG): So I know who the ex-fiancé is but who is Hannah?

Me: Your old roommate (her real name)!
CG: Holy shit! Seriously? Damn… I didn’t realize she was such a wreck!
Me: Oh my god, yeah.
CG: I’m going to have to reread it now that I know who it was!
Me: I think this was before you lived with her, but yes. She was a mess.
CG: Yeah, it would have been before I was with her. She’d actually gotten her shit together much more by that point and I rarely saw her cry. Thank god!
Me: She cried EVERY TIME I saw her.
CG: Oh fun. I just got her drunk and fucked her.
Me: I never thought of that.
CG: It wasn’t my fault. For weeks she had been talking about how she was curious and how she thinks it would good. She just needed an excuse. So I got her drunk and she got slutty.
Me: LOL!!
CG: B. helped. I think that was when he realized I was the threesome whisperer. That weekend I managed to arrange two different threesomes. Not planned. Just taking advantage of the situation.
Me: You really are the threesome whisperer!
CG: I know. It’s kind of my superpower. I’ve had more threesomes than most people have had partners. Seriously. God, I really am a slut.
Me: I don’t know whether to shake your hand or watch my alcohol intake around you.
CG: Whatev’s. You know you’d love it.
Me: I’m too selfish and focused for threesomes. Maybe too mean.

She is currently mailing me strawberry cheesecake bars. I think she is trying to seduce me. I love my friends.

Breaking Irrational Women

I am usually good at calming people down. I have been known to stop fights, prevent meltdowns, talk people back into reality. I used to think the trick was being calm myself. People feed off of other people’s energy. But this is bullshit. No one cares that I’m ‘being chill’. The truth is I appeal to people’s rational side without insulting them. I throw logic at them, hit them over the head with facts and case studies. I venn diagram their asses! (Yeah, that last sentence made no sense, but you get where I am going with this.) My point? Even though I can calm down the rational people in my life, I absolutely suck at doing the same for the irrational. In fact, I’m downright dangerous with that group. Case in point:

MANY YEARS AGO

My ex-fiancé was an EMT and had a very emotional female partner. He brought her around often and as much as I wanted to connect with her, I couldn’t. She cried over everything. Her job, her ex, her friends, her enemies, potato chips. It was exhausting.

I didn’t dislike her, though. She was sweet and semi-intelligent. And when she wasn’t crying, she was interesting. But our nights with her would always end the same. She’d tell tragic/grotesque EMT stories, I’d listen attentively, we’d drink rum and coke and then she would have a meltdown and I would find a reason to leave. I knew the routine and I had learned to cope with it. Most importantly, the ex-fiancé was usually there to deal with the crying part. He was much better at that than I. There was a nurturing side to him that drew people in. He made them feel safe and he was excellent at making tears disappear.

The problem was, he thought everyone had that talent. One night, when he was on his midnight shift, I got this call.

Ex-fiancé (EF): Hannah is having a breakdown. A really bad one. We had to send her home.

Me: Sorry to hear that. Send her my best.
EF: Well… I kind of told her to go to our house.
Me: What? Here? Why here?
EF: I need you to be there for her until I get off of work. Just talk to her and let her cry on your shoulder.
Me: Wait. First tell me what this breakdown is about.
EF: Her ex won’t return her calls.
Me: No no no. Send her somewhere else. I don’t do the ex thing well. This will end badly.
EF: I have faith in you. I’ll be home in a few hours and I will take it from there.
Me: I hate you.
EF: Thanks. You’re the best! (click)

Really? Ex not calling? Who gives a shit about ex’s not calling. That’s what they are supposed to do, not call. Hell, I wished I had had that problem. She should be celebrating… popping open champagne, wearing a tiara and having sex with a bartender. That’s what normal people do, right?

She showed up a mess. Her puffy face was covered in tears, her shoulders hunched from heaving. She gasped for breaths in between sobs and threw her arms around me. It was madness.

Me: Okay. Calm yourself for a second and tell me what happened.

Hannah: I left my ex like three messages a few days ago and he still hasn’t called back.
Me: Then stop leaving messages.
Hannah: He doesn’t love me anymore.
Me: Jesus Christ, who cares? Look, lots of men are going to break your heart. Most won’t be worth it. If you don’t learn to cope, you are going to be in serious trouble.
Hannah: I don’t know how to cope!
Me: It’s all science. Evolution has caused you to bond with people for social reasons. There is an actual gene responsible for pain whenever that bond is broken. It’s to keep you socially tied to your tribe. But that pain… it eventually goes away. You just have to learn to ride out the storm. Go out and enjoy life. Do things that make you happy. Bond with your friends. And I promise, all the hurt you feel right now really does have a biological end.
Hannah: But why won’t he call? Doesn’t he realize how much this hurts me!

Jesus. I had pulled out my very best ‘break up’ speech and it had all gone over her head. I should have started with the ‘you deserve better’ talk and worked my way up. But her cry face had panicked me and I had whipped out the big guns too soon. I only had one option left.

Me: We are going to have to drink whiskey.

Hannah: No. I hate whiskey.
Me: Don’t back talk me. Whiskey is the best medicine for the depressed. It’ll be just the blackout drunk you need to get through tonight.

I pulled a bottle of Gentlemen’s Jack out of the freezer and poured her a glass. Yes, an entire glass. After her second drink she began to eye the whiskey suspiciously.

Hannah: (swaying) This shit is awful.

Me: I think it tastes delicious. It’s like coffee. At first you’re like, “how do people like this crap?” And then a year later you realize that you can’t live without it.
Hannah: I don’t like how it makes me feel.
Me: But you’re not crying. Thank god. My recommendation is to keep drinking until you realize how hilarious your pathetic life really is. That’s what I do.
Hannah: Okay.

I am not sure how many drinks she had. All I remember is every time the tears started to well up in her eyes, I poured whiskey down her throat. I was at war and my weapon was the bottle. Jack and I were determined to win this.

At 4am my ex-fiancé finally came home. I was in my pj’s playing Guitar Hero and I was very very drunk.

Me: This Smashing Pumpkins song is not as easy as it sounds. You hear it and think, I will destroy this song, and then your fingers get all confused and the song destroys you. I must master this.

EF: Where is Hannah?
Me: She’s either throwing up in the bathroom or passed out on the floor. Five minutes ago it was throwing up, but her eyes were closed so she should be sleepy by now.
EF: What did you do to her?
Me: I won the war!
EF: What fucking war are you talking about?
Me: I smothered her feelings with a bottle of Jack. You. Are. Welcome.
EF: Wow. I am never leaving anyone with you again!
Me: Another win!
EF: By the way, The Smashing Pumpkin’s song is one of the easiest. Go to bed.

The night (or morning, however you want to look at it) ended with my ex having to give both of us IV’s and Advil. He spent the next few hours taking care of Hannah and trying to get me to put down the guitar. I was no longer playing the game but carrying it around while singing random drinking songs to him. The next morning Hannah woke up with a horrible headache, her eyes bloodshot from puking. She could barely move or keep even her water down. I woke up in the lawn chair in the backyard snuggled up to my guitar. The ex, he had not gone to sleep yet. He had been busy checking up on Hannah all morning and stopping me from wandering over to my neighbor’s yard. No one was happy with me.

Moral of the story: Never leave me with crying women who have ex issues and no ability to think rationally. I will break them.

Moody Sex & Mac and Cheese

MOODS

I cannot shake this good mood but I think I have discovered its source. I blame it on the sex. In fact, the correlation between my moods and sex is frightening. ‘No sex’ me can get very grumpy and snarky. ‘Long time no sex’ me is pissy and mean. Sex me is happy and hyper. ‘Great sex’ me is fabulous. So there you go. That’s the formula to my mental wellbeing. Which is either really awesome or really pathetic. I’m going with awesome.

The only problem with this new discovery is that I’m not a slut or a many-partners kind of girl. Which means that when I am single there are a lot of grumpy and snarky days.  I suppose this is okay. I’m kind of funny when I am snarky. Maybe even hilarious.  

Anyways, welcome to my awesome mood. I think it is safe to say that Wil is at fault for this. Why? Because he has been self-sacrificing enough to deliver my mandatory three times a week minimum. He is truly a brave soldier. An immensely confusing, irritatingly smart, horribly egotistical, brave soldier. In fact, I am often torn between punching him in the throat or dragging him into the bedroom. It is obvious which choice I am currently making. If you see me getting grumpy, it means Wil is probably not swallowing his food well.   

 Why am I sharing this with you, you ask? Because I can. Never question me again.

LAST NIGHT

Yes, I downed an entire bottle of champagne. This usually just gives me a good buzz (tells you something about my tolerance, doesn’t it?) but because the only things I ate yesterday were two spoonfuls of rice and three spoonfuls of beans, I got rather sloshed. Here is why I love my friends:

Carrie: You seem very drunk. I can tell because you get this look on your face.

Me: Am I really that drunk?
Wil: You’re hammered.
Me: But all I’ve had is champagne. This is ridiculous!
Carrie: Did you eat today?
Me: Not really.
Carrie: That’s why! You need to eat.
Me: But I’m not hungry!
Wil: We should make her mac and cheese.
Carrie: Yes. You want mac and cheese?

Of course I did! I think I actually got little-girl excited about it. And even though I had to make it, those two are not capable adults in the kitchen, it definitely brought me back to ‘just buzzed’. So yes, Wil and Carrie saved me with mac and cheese. They kind of rock for that.

On the flip side, it concerns me that this is what my life has been reduced to. 38 years old, drunk on champagne, sitting on my couch doing nothing, excited over mac and cheese. What the hell is wrong with me? At some point, I am going to have to grow up. And soon.

TEXT FROM LAST NIGHT

EVG: I have to admit, Wil Wheaton has a sexy voice.

Me: Right?!? Imagine hearing that during sex!
EVG: I prefer my men not to speak during sex. It breaks my concentration and reminds me who I am actually sleeping with.

She wins. As usual.

Christmas Eve and Unhinged Jaws

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My Sad Attempt at Revenge

There were ten of us that went out that night. Carrie and I had picked a bar a mile down the road in order to get out of the neighborhood. A pointless endeavor, since everyone with us was from the circle, but I liked this group. They were drunk and fun and respectful.

The Quarter was a Louisiana themed semi-biker bar and I knew most the regulars. I felt safe at the Quarter. A majority of the men that went there were friends of mine, which meant I could be open and talkative and comfortable. I could be myself.

Then it began. The regulars left, the strangers started flooding in, Carrie had wandered off to a table with two men, and my group of circle people headed back to the Crown. I cut myself off of wine and switched to beer. The game plan was to become serious and unapproachable. It usually worked, if the men weren’t too intoxicated, and it let me drink in peace. It isn’t that I dislike men. Most guys I meet in my daily life are extremely nice/polite people. I am just wary of strange inebriated dudes in bars. All women should be. It’s how not to be murdered.

Carrie: Hey! Don’t sit alone. Come join us.

Me: I’m good here, honestly.

One if the guys at her table pulled a chair next to him and pointed at it. Should I be polite and sit down or should I be stubborn and not acknowledge his gesture? I went with polite.

Carrie: This is Jay and Evan. They’re brothers. And get this… they live in the circle! Isn’t that crazy?

Awesome. I nodded and lifted my glass. I think I even smiled. And then I sized the two up.

Jay wore a t-shirt and jeans. His hair was cut short but was long enough to be slightly tangled. He had a good buzz going and his full attention was on Carrie. He hung on her words, laughed at her jokes, made a few compliments. Mostly, he seemed sweet. I could relax around him.

Evan, however, was the complete opposite. He wore a button up shirt, dress pants, shiny shoes and way too much cologne. His hair was perfect and his smile was… dishonest. He was drunk and he had that look in his eye like I might just be his sure thing. He had no idea how wrong he was.

Evan: You have a beautiful name.

Me: I’d like to think so.
Evan: Is it Polish?
Me: Greek.
Evan: Are you seeing anyone?

Jesus Christ. He jumped right into that one. I shook my head and pulled out my phone. Whenever I want to escape a situation, I use technology. This works anywhere. Pretend you are answering an important text and people will wait for all of thirty seconds and then move their attention elsewhere. I use it at bars, at work, in all social situations, and to get out of answering awkward questions.

Evan: You are a very attractive girl. My brother and I thought you and Carrie were in the top ten of the prettiest women here.

Me: (intently texting no one) There are only about ten women in this bar. But thank you.
Evan: Ha! Do you come to this place a lot?
Me: (still texting no one) I suppose.
Evan: Why here?
Me: (still texting no one) I’m not sure.

And then he did it. He grabbed my phone. I felt the blood rush to my face and I took a deep breath.

Evan: (handing me back my phone) Will you please pay attention to me?

Me: I suggest you not touch my phone again. Ever.
Evan: Whoa. Okay. I am just trying to have a conversation with you.
Me: Understood. But try doing it less asshole-y.
Evan: Ha! You’re funny.

Hmm. I wasn’t really going for funny.

Carrie: Jay wants to go to the Duck!

Me: Absolutely not. No way.
Carrie: Don't worry. I texted your ex and he says it’s fine.

My ex was a bouncer at that bar, and him and I in the same area usually meant an argument. Not immediately. But later. He always found reasons to be upset.

Me: No. I don’t want to go anywhere near there.

This time I got a real text.

Ex: Carrie says she wants you to come to the Duck. You know I am fine with you being here.

Me: I’m not. Thanks anyway, though.
Ex: Who are you two with?
Me: Some guys named Evan and Jay. I guess they’re brothers.
Ex: The ones that live in the circle?
Me: Yeah. You know them?
Ex: Ha! Those are the dudes I fought because of you!
Me: The night the police came?
Ex: Exactly.
Me: Never mind. I’m coming to the Duck.

Many months prior to this, when the ex and I first broke up, I was walking home from the Crown and I heard some people arguing. At the time I paid little attention to it. People argue.

Back then I looked a bit different. I had darker hair, always wore my thick glasses, and dressed in baggy t-shirts and jeans. I was unassuming and even more reserved than I am now.

So what was the argument I heard? That night Jay, Evan, a group of their friends and my ex were standing outside Evans apartment. Jay and Evan saw me walking by and made a snide remark about how I looked. My ex went into a rage and a fight ensued. Police were called and people were told to leave.

Me, I was oblivious. When the ex came home later that night and told me the story, he thought I would be impressed that he defended my honor. I was not impressed. I was tired and annoyed. But mostly, I was sad that people could be so mean. Maybe I was even a little hurt.

I am not usually a vengeful person. I don’t see the point in investing negative energy into anything; it seems childish. Yet the irony here was glaring. The same prick who only months ago was insulting me to a group of guys, now wanted to flirt with me, buy my drinks, get my number. He had no idea I was that other girl. None at all.

Me: (flashing my biggest smile to Evan) I’d love to go to the Duck with you.

Evan: (winking) Great!

We headed to the Duck and Evan pulled his best gentleman card. He opened the car door for me, rubbed my leg, tossed a few compliments. This was going to be easy.

My ex lifted his eyebrow when he saw us walking in.

Ex: What are you going to do to him?
Me: Not quite sure. I’m kind of winging it.

Even he knew I sucked at the whole revenge thing.

Ex: (laughing) Good luck.

The bar was packed and Evan took my arm to the only open space.

Evan: What do you want to drink?

Me: (leaning in so only the bartender could hear me) What is your most expensive beer?
Bartender: The Chimay Red.
Me: That’s what I want.

I am not sure how many I went through or how many I dumped in the bathroom sink. But it was enough of a small win to make me smile. I know, I know. That isn’t very creative. I should have just went home and called it a night. But strangely, it felt good.

We left the bar and Evan dropped off Jay and Carrie.

Evan: Can I walk you home?

Me: Of course.

I am not sure what we talked about but by the time we got to my building, I was sure he thought he would get lucky.

Evan: Why are we stopping? Don’t you live here?

Me: Yes. But I really don’t want you to know which apartment is mine.
Evan: Ok? Why is that?
Me: Because, Evan. You are a fucking prick.
Evan: Whoa! Does this mean no kiss?
Me: God no. Fuck no. That would be nauseating. And your bar game? Does that ever work for you? I mean, you must know how disgustingly transparent it is.
Evan: Wow. You’re a little crazy.
Me: Probably. Thanks for the drinks, though.

The fact that it still makes me laugh to think about that night probably means that I am a terrible person. And why I was more upset with him than Jay is something I have never figured out.

Most importantly, I need to start embracing my darker side. Because when it comes to most things nasty (lying, vengefulness, manipulation) I really am awful at them. But this revenge thing, at least my sad attempt at it, felt… well, amazing.

Jello Shots and Whispering

Dec 20^th, 2007

I woke up with nothing on but a hospital bracelet. My head was throbbing and bruises covered the left side of my body. It was Thursday morning. Maybe afternoon. Had our Wednesday party gone this terribly wrong? What the fuck happened last night?

Tom laid next to me, half naked and sans bruises. I shook him awake.

Me: What the hell happened to me?

Tom: You don’t want to know.
Me: Oh, god.
Tom: God had nothing to do with it. Trust me.

My phone rang and I reached over him to answer it. It was my mother.

Mom: Why is the hospital calling our house looking for you?

Me: Uhm. I’m actually trying to figure that out.
Mom: You are 32 years-old. 32!
Me: I am so sorry, mom. I blame my irresponsible love for jello shots.
Mom: You can’t joke your way out of every situation. You do that all the time. But there is nothing funny about getting a phone call from the damn hospital.
Me: I know, I know. I am truly sorry.
Mom: Please. Just get married and settle down. Have a normal life. Don’t you think you deserve that?
Me: Mom, of course. But a normal life would kill me.
Mom: Your life right now is killing you.
Me: But I made it out of a hospital alive, didn’t I? So I think I’m still winning this life game.
Mom: (sigh) I love you but I’m hanging up. Good bye.

Tom was fully awake now, smiling and shaking his head.

Tom: You really don’t remember do you?

Me: No. Last thing I recall is all of us passing around jello shots in the hot tub.
Tom: Ok, well after that, you decided that hot tubs were gross. Said we were all stewing in each other’s sweat and ‘people juices’.
Me: So my germ-a-phobia is still kicking even when I’m drunk?
Tom: Apparently. Then you got out and missed a step and fell over. Chris and I had to help you to the kitchen where you decided to make hot dogs.
Me: Mike’s hot dogs?
Tom: Yep. You walked into his room and told him that World of Warcraft was destroying his life and that you were going to save it by eating all his hot dogs.
Me: That doesn’t make sense.
Tom: I know. Then we left you for five minutes and came back and found you passed out on the bathroom floor. You had hit your head and couldn’t tell us your name so we took you to the hospital.
Me: Ok… and?
Tom: You cried the whole way there and kept telling us you hate hospitals and to not do this to you. We got you checked in and we were waiting for you to get called back when all of a sudden it was like you instantly sobered up, looked around and very seriously told us to take you home and put you to bed.
Me: Really?
Tom: Yeah. Your exact words were, “These assholes are going to stick me with needles and make me wear a ridiculous gown. We need to break out of here.” So we did. You got home, stripped down naked and went straight to sleep.
Me: Jello shots are dangerous little bastards aren’t they?
Tom: Indeed.

December 20^th, 2013

I woke up in pajamas. I had spent the evening before on the phone with Spitfire, making my weekend plans and drinking a glass of champagne. Yeah, you heard me, ONE glass. I felt… great.

I have this weird thing about clothes. You can always tell my mood by what I wear. Good mood means favorite t-shirts, so I shoveled through my closet until I found my ‘Detroit’ tee. Purple and sparkles. Boom!

No hangover, no hospital bracelet, no half-drunk man in my bed. I had a moment of feeling accomplished. Grown up even. Until I remembered having to be walked home the night before, four glasses of wine deep. Still… no tears or doctors, right?

Wil Wheaton Look Alike

He is, hands down, the most confusing man I have ever met. But there is something about him that draws me in. Like Spitfire, he has the strange ability to make people feel important. His is different than hers though. Where hers is warm and inviting, it surrounds the people she is with and makes them feel special just for being near her, his is intense and focused, it snaps its fingers in people’s faces and makes them feel significant.

The thing about Wil is that when he is truly being himself, outside of entertaining people, he is actually interesting and kind. But it isn’t something he puts out there. For all his social interactions (and he has a lot) he still carries this wall around him. And strangely, I have no desire to scale it or knock it down. I just enjoy the few moments that he comes outside of it. Maybe because I do not want people fucking with my walls. Maybe because I just take people for who they are. Who the hell knows?

Somewhere, in the midst of my whirlwind of a Tuesday, Wil and I decided to date each other. There is something terrifying about this. Two people, two walls, both drinkers, both incredibly weird, probably not the greatest influence on each other… sure, let’s date. Either this is the most brilliant plan on earth or we will destroy the world and get arrested doing so. How can I possibly pass up either scenario?

And remember when I said that I often put my foot in my mouth? I say something and think, “Did those words really just leave my face?” I was even given an award at work for this. A Dundee that reads “Did She Really Just Say That Award”.

On Wednesday morning, this charming thing came out of my mouth.

Wil: You know, you do this thing where you know when I am about to finish and you just stop. Every time. It is so weird. I’m like, how the hell does she know?!?

Me: Because I'm the sperm whisperer.

Yeah. I said that. And you can’t undo that gem of a statement. No, you absolutely cannot.

F*ck Off Text and My PJ Pathetic Life

Last night I got a long text from Musician Dude about how I don’t appreciate a good thing when I see it. Yep, that asshole will not give up. Basically, he felt that by having gone out with him more than once, I led him on in believing things between us would be serious. (Never mind that the last time I saw him was months and months ago.) Oh, and also how my not putting out for him was all my fault. Which is true. It was definitely my fault. Who else’s would it be? Amazing conclusion, genius boy. Then he got all weird and scary-angry. He brought up his band (still not impressed, dick hole). Then his money (he obviously has no clue where my level of ‘don’t-give-a-shit-about-money’ is). Then his connection to law enforcement (NO idea what the hell that was about). Here was our last correspondence.

Me: I am guessing this tantrum of yours is because you’re not used to being told no. I said before that I was not pissed at you but now I kind of am. I am not sure how to convey to you that I have zero interest in seeing you again. Maybe a ‘fuck off’ or a ‘quit fucking texting me’? Either way, your anger is strange and your persistence is annoying. Please stop.

Musician Dude: This is the kind of myopic nonsense I can’t stand.
Me: Yeah. I don’t have a clue what that means.
Musician Dude: But there are times… for you and me when all such things agree.

Did he just quote Rush at me? Yes, yes he did. That was a whole new level of douche baggery. And still made no sense.

Welcome to men in Dallas. I know I always say it, as if bad men are regional, but I am beginning to believe I am on to something here. Here’s the difference; you be the judge.

Men from California: Open doors for you.

Men from Texas: Walk in ahead of you. Far ahead of you.

Men from California: Impress you with kindness (even if it’s bullshit).

Men from Texas: Impress you with shallow things (money, fame, sports, job).

Men from California: Aren’t not afraid to be themselves.
Men from Texas: Are just like everyone else in Texas.

Men from California: Flowers. Compliments. Intelligent conversation.

Men from Texas: Beer. Off-handed insults. Vapid conversation.

I’m not even disappointed. I’m amused. Plus, it makes it easy to sort the locals from the transplants. A good skill to have down here.

In non-men related news, I have realized that I have reached a whole new level of pathetic-ness. I woke up this morning with an idea I couldn’t shake. I need new pajamas! Something fuzzy but lightweight. Something obnoxious with monkeys or sheep on them. Something pink or purple-y. What’s so pathetic about wanting pajamas, you ask? Well, the fact that I can't stop thinking about this idea, that I am giddy excited about this plan, or that I intend celebrate my purchase with wine and movies. Or because I am also planning on getting matching slippers. Boom!

Here’s a glimpse into my sad pajama-needing life.

Guy Friend From Michigan (GFFM): Any big plans tonight?

Me: Fuck yeah! I am getting new pj’s.
GFFM: And then?
Me: Wearing them!
GFFM: To where?
Me: Wherever I want!
GFFM: You have no plans do you?
Me: No.
GFFM: You realize you are more excited about pj’s than you have been about anything else in the last… oh, I don’t know… YEAR!
Me: But, they will be fuzzy and pink and wonderful. :(
GFFM: They’re fucking pajamas. Go out to a bar and get drunk like a normal person.
Me: Ok.
GFFM: You aren’t going to are you? You’re going to go buy pj’s and stay excited and be perfectly fine staying home in them?
Me: Maybe.
GFFM: You need to come back here. I’m starting to worry about you.
Me: I think I’ve always been this way. Location doesn’t change my insanity level.
GFFM: If I were there, I would not let this happen to you.
Me: Yes you would.
GFFM: You’re right. But I want the record to show that I am disappointed in you and I already hate your pajamas.
Me: Duly noted.

Spitfire, B. and Death By Refrigerator

Saturday morning held a lot of drama. Mostly family/holiday/people-being-ugly stuff. Usually I hold up well under these sorts of things. It isn’t TRULY my drama unless I let it be, right? But sometimes I can be rather girly. The whole tears and sobbing bullshit. And there is nothing I hate more than crying. Except maybe puking.

Spitfire called me during my curled-up-on-the-couch-sobbing episode and immediately heard it in my voice. She came over and let me cry all over her. It is strange how good she is at that. I never have to say anything to her. Never. Plus, she is hands-down the best hugger on earth.

And there is magic to Spitfire. In minutes of seeing her I feel better. Well, at least it seems like magic. What it really is is warmth. True warmth. The kind of warmth that emanates and lingers. She may be all of five feet tall, but being around her is safe and calming. God forbid I ever find a man that has this same quality. He would be in trouble. Or I would.

My self-pitying episodes never last too long, thank god. I did the dog pass off with my ex and jumped in the shower. However, news of my sadness hit Arizona and my friend texted me the sweetest thing a person could ever hear. But first, let me introduce you to B.

I met B. ten years ago in Bakersfield. He was best friends with my then fiancé. When that breakup happened (the whole ‘lived off of me for years, hit on every single one of my friends, cheated on me with a nurse and made all his ‘bros’ choose sides’ event) B. stood by me through all that ugliness. At the cost of his friendship with my ex even.

Back then my self-esteem had taken a hit. Instead of realizing that it had nothing to do with whom I was and more to do with my poor choices in men, I thought for sure there was something terribly wrong with me. That was when B. began flying out to see me. He brought me sake and Dr. Horrible and, most importantly, jokes. He always brought jokes.

What makes B. special is that he has seen the ‘broken me’ and the ‘fixed me’ and he has loved both me’s equally. He is the only person in my life that I am positive will never walk away from me or give up on me. And for a person with a past like mine, that’s a god damn big deal. He holds all my secrets, knows all about my childhood and family problems, and has listened to all my bad choices without judgment. And the greatest part of this is… he is like this with everyone. Guy or girl, if you are B.’s friend he will love you entirely. And you will not deserve it and you will be better for it.

After getting out of the shower, A. (B.’s girlfriend and one of the most beautiful people inside and out) texted me this:

A.: We need you to move to Arizona.

Me: I love you!
A.: Seriously. B. actually got melancholy the other day because he says he missed you and he cannot stand to be away from you.

(To anyone on the outside this might seem strange, but my friends are full of love and we are secure enough to express it fully.)

Me: Aww! That made me cry again.

A.: He really really loves you.
Me: I really love him. And you. And EVG.
A.: B. says but mostly him, right?

These are the kind of people I have in my life. And this is why I can never be sad for more than an hour. I have no idea how I got so lucky. Yeah, it’s true that I am a dork, that I am single at 38, that I like to drink too much wine, that I have a movie addiction, that I am standoffish to men. But I am never truly alone and I am loved by some of the greatest people on earth. If I were to be extremely honest, I wouldn’t trade my life for anyone else’s.

Okay. Enough of the serious shit. I had one of the best conversations yesterday. It went like this:

Evil Handshake Girl (EHG. I will explain her nickname some other entry): I was in a really dark place in college. Even tried to commit suicide once.

Me: Oh my god. I can’t imagine. I’ve never been that low. It must have been terrible.
EHG: It was. I had to quit drinking after that.
Me: How’d you try to do it?
EHG: With a refrigerator.
Me: (spits out wine) HAHAHAHAHA! With what? Oh my god. I am sorry. HAHAHA! Did you say a refrigerator? (trying to breathe)
EHG: Yes.
Me: Ha. Ha. Oh god. Ok. Sorry. What did you do? Lock yourself in one?
EHG: No. It was a mini frigde.
Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! Holy shit! HAHAHAHAHAHA! I feel so bad for laughing. HAHAHAHAHA! How the fuck do you off yourself with a mini fridge?
EHG: I slammed it into my stomach.
Me: BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! That’s how you give yourself an abortion. Not how you kill yourself! HAHAHAHA!
EHG: I was drunk!
Me: That is the most god awful and hysterical suicide plan ever! HAHAHAHAHA!
EHG: I was also naked during this time.
Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! Stop. Stop. No more. HAHAHAHAHA!!
EHG: (giggling)
Me: I’m keeping you around. You are god damn funny. You got more stories like this?
EHG: Oh, yeah.
Me: Oh, you and I are about to be inseparable.

Weekend Texts and Saturday Summary

WEEKEND TEXTS

Annoying Text:

Musician Dude: Are you still pissed at me? I really miss you…

What I am Thinking: (No the shit you do not. You don’t even know me enough to miss me. We’ve been on five dates. Five. So you know nothing about me. And no, you are still not getting laid.)
What I Write: I was never pissed. You just want something from me that I don’t want to give you. And I don’t have the energy to deal with games.
Musician Dude: You have the wrong idea about me. I don’t want just that. I won’t lie, I’m interested in that. But I honestly like being around you. Let’s do a Woody Allen movie and dinner this week.
What I am Thinking: (Movie and dinner? Is that going change my mind? Seriously? Real god damn creative. Although the Woody Allen angle was a little bit brilliant. He almost had me for a second.)
What I Write: No, thank you.

I don’t know what it is about me but once I close the door on someone or something, it is fully done in my mind. I’m not the ‘look back’ girl. That is why I have never taken back an ex-boyfriend or given guys like Musician Dude more than one chance. And everyone is always surprised. It’s called self-respect. And as ‘nice’ as I am, I do know how to cut people out.

Crazy Text:

Wil Wheaton: Wow, so I drank so much last night that I have practically no memory. But I woke up with a fat lip, a broken nose and a gash on my forehead.

Me: Holy shit! Did you get into a fight?
Wil: I have no clue.
Me: You’re Irish. You got into a fight.

Let me tell you what was going through my mind when he text me this. I pictured Wil in a bar, very drunk, slamming shots (this is extremely easy to picture as this scenario accounts for 80% of his life), mouthing off to one of our local douche bags, getting dragged outside, rolling fists across the patio, and then walking back into the bar to order more shots. And Wil is infuriatingly clever so I imagined whatever he said to provoke this fight to be hysterical.

What Really Happened – Did he have some sort of sexy old-timey bar fight? No. Did he say something witty to spark a bar room brawl? No. The real story, Wil was so drunk that while taking a piss, he fell into the urinal and smashed his face up. Here was his opinion on the matter:

Me: You realize that your face is fucked up because you got attacked by a urinal and lost.

Wil: I didn’t lose.
Me (looking at his broken nose): You sure as fuck did.
Wil: No. You’re looking at this all wrong. In the end, I pissed on that urinal. And I’ll go back and piss on it again. So… I win.

See. Infuriatingly clever.

Funny Text:

EVG: Hurro!

Me: Did you just Asian hello me?
EVG: I sure as shit did.
Me: Who is it that you said I laugh like again?
EVG: Teddy Ruxpin.
Me: Fuck you.
EVG: Wow. Why did shit get real? I thought we were having a friendly racially charged conversation.

EVG (later): I dreamt about cake and fixing the space station last night. Also, how to serve cake without utensils. Now I want cake. Specifically, funfetti cake. Which was the cake of my dreams. Everything is more beautiful in space.

Me: And now I want space cake too.
EVG: Who can blame you?

Reality Check Text:

Me: So I told some freakishly tall guy in the bar last night that I wanted to climb him and shove a flag in his head.

California Guy: Wow. Does he live in your neighborhood?
Me: No. He works with me.
California Guy: Then he isn’t a ‘guy in the bar’. He’s a coworker. Which makes what you said even worse.
Me: They are all ‘guys in the bar’. Unless I’ve slept with them, of course. Then I name them.
California Guy: How many have you slept with?
Me: One.
California Guy: Only one guy has a name.
Me: Yes.
California Guy: I almost believe you.
Me: That I only slept with one guy?
California Guy: No. That you named him.

MY SATURDAY

Our company Christmas party was amazing. Besides the fact that my boss’s speech about my accomplishments included ‘being mean to men’ (not true), going on a date with alien Jesus (true), and being afraid of commitment (not true). Either way, I think those accomplishments prove that I deserve a raise.

And I believe that I had fun that night, from what I could remember. I did terrible shots, threatened to scale a tall guy, told a group of people to go fuck themselves, walked out of my shoes, had to be carried home, and woke up covered in glitter and double sided sticky tape. Don’t ask.

I also walked out on my tab, which had to be in the hundreds. This meant that I had to do the hangover walk of shame to go back and pay for it. I looked awful. Hair askew, skull pajamas that were too big, barely any makeup. You’d think I’d get those pretentious shitty looks when I showed up looking like that but no one even blinked. I guess living in a neighborhood of alcoholics has its benefits.

The nice thing was that my tab had been paid for by somebody else. Either having boobs is a wonderful asset for poor drunks like me or I am just so amazing and interesting that people trip over themselves to pay my tab. I have a feeling it is not the latter. But I sure as hell am going to pretend it is.

Quizno's Sex and Flatbed Disco

I have a friend most people are intimidated by. I will call her Flatbed (details later). She is Hollywood beautiful (long blond hair, big chest, tiny waist, long legs) and more adventurous than any person I have ever met. Most women are jealous of her, unless they too look like they have been pulled from the movies. But me, I love being around her. I am not beautiful, I am not adventurous, I do not light up a room the way she does. But I am comfortable in my skin and with my own presence. Enough so that I feel the way people should feel when then are around her. Full of life and loved.

It was July 4^th and my hangover was vicious. I woke up in naked next to my best friend, an Irish guy from Tehachapi. The room was a sickly green and smelled of sour whiskey and sex. How appropriate, I thought.

I snuck to the kitchen for water. Empty beer bottles were stacked from the floor to the counters and clothes were piled next to the refrigerator. What the fuck happened last night?

Flatbed came skipping into the kitchen. Yeah, skipping. This girl should have been dead from alcohol poisoning, at least she should have been in a little bit of pain. But no, a cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth and a smile spread across her face.

Flatbed: You slept with him didn’t you?
Me: Jesus. I did. I guess I thought our friendship wasn’t good enough anymore so why not ruin it with sex, right?
Flatbed: It’s about time. Your sexless flirting was irritating me. How was it anyway?

Her boyfriend came in the kitchen and looked how I felt. He stared at me, waiting for my answer.

Me: Mind blowing, actually. Up until the Quizno’s part. You know when there is all that sexual tension and then whiskey gets involved? It’s like the perfect recipe for great sex.

Flatbed: Quizno’s part?
Me: Yeah. We were having sex and everything was going great and then he just passed out. Like dead to the world passed out. But still ready to go, if you know what I mean.
Flatbed: Holy crap! What did you do?
Me: I got off of him and laid down, of course. There was a moment where I was like, should I keep going? But it felt… criminal.

Flatbed: HA! I would have kept going! Still not sure what this has to do with Quizno’s, though.

Me: Oh, yeah! The pass out part! Right in the middle of everything he starts to close his eyes and mumble something. I ask him to repeat it and he gets this incredibly sad look on his face and says, “Quizno’s is closed. Forever…” Then he passes out and starts snoring.
Flatbed’s Boyfriend: HAHAHAHA!!! Oh my god!! That is hysterical. I know why he said that!!
Flatbed: Tell us!
Flatbed’s Boyfriend: Remember when you guys went into the donut shop yesterday, the one where you stole the donuts from Buddha? While we were waiting for your two crazy asses, we passed a Quizno’s with a sign that read “Quizno’s is Closed. Forever.” And Irish Guy was very upset about the ‘forever’ part. He kept saying, “That sign was so final. Why were they so final about it?”
Me: I don’t even want to know why sex with me reminded him of that.

We decided to be patriotic that afternoon and headed to the beach for oysters and bloody mary’s. Nothing is more American than that, right? Then we stocked up on more alcohol and went back to Flatbed’s Boyfriend’s house for the fireworks. He lives on the main canal of the Channel Islands and from the deck of his house you can see the Ventura Fireworks Show perfectly. If you are sober enough, that is.

Halfway into the evening, Flatbed and I were barely standing. We were happy drunk and full of trouble. That was when the most brilliant idea was made into reality.

Flatbed: I want to go to a disco!

Me: Who says disco anymore?
Flatbed: I need to go dancing!
Me: Okay. Let’s get a cab and make this happen.
Flatbed’s Boyfriend: We are not going anywhere!
Flatbed: I want to dance, big daddy!
Me: I agree. I feel this needs to happen.
Flatbed’s Boyfriend: If I make a disco here will you two shut up?
Flatbed: Make it here!!

Flatbed’s Boyfriend and Irish Guy pulled out a flatbed trailer and moved it into the driveway. They hooked up speakers and I think there might have been lighting involved. Mind you, the driveway faced the main sidewalk where scores of family-type people were walking to the beach for the fireworks. Loud obnoxious music and four half naked people dancing on a trailer is not exactly family appropriate but what the hell. I am not exactly family appropriate, am I?

I am not sure how we did it, the four of us dancing on a tiny trailer, but never in my life have I ever had so much fun in such small space. Flatbed’s boyfriend brought the whiskey bottles and Irish Guy tied a cooler of beer to the trailer. The public was not happy with us.

Sometimes, if you pour enough alcohol down my throat, I get a very rebellious streak in me. After several dirty looks from people waving their American flags as they passed by, I had had enough. I stood up on the top of the trailer and started yelling.

Me: England should have won!!
Flatbed: Won what?
Me: England should have won!!
Flatbed: Why are you screaming that at them?
Me: The war. Remember? The whole reason we celebrate today. England versus the colonists? We won. Then America happened. The whole reason I can yell this without being beheaded?
Flatbed: So you think we should have lost?
Me: God no. I just want these people to piss off and move along.
Flatbed: OH! Okay. England should have won!!... Why is nobody caring?
Me: You aren’t much good at history, huh?
Flatbed: Apparently neither is anyone else.
Me: I give up.
Flatbed: Why is Irish Guy looking at you like he wants to kill you?
Me: Oh, shit. Because in his war, England really did win.
Flatbed: Damnit. Looks like no Quizno’s sex for you tonight.

Dog Whores, Cannibalism and Out of Shape Sex Girl

My weekend talks/texts with EVG were enlightening as always.

Dog Whores

Me: You named your dog Margo?

EVG: I knew she was a whore the moment I saw her. So I named her Margo. It was the best whore name I could think of at that moment.
Me: How can you know if your dog is going to be a whore?
EVG: I just knew she was. And I was right. She came home and immediately got pregnant. Do you need any further explanation?
Me: No. Good call.

Cannibals

Me: (bored at home alone) Text me something funny.

EVG: This is all I got.

Me: ...

EVG: Okay, fine. What did the cannibal say to his wife when he was late for dinner?

Me: …
EVG: Why the cold shoulder?

Nothing is funnier to me than cannibalism. Hands down. She knows how to pull my heart strings.

In serious news, my life has taken a few peculiar turns. It’s never the big things that make me go “what the hell?” No, it is definitely the little things. Here are my ‘what the hell moments’ from this weekend.

1.      I woke up Sunday on the side of the bed closest to the door. Granted, when Wil Wheaton sleeps over, you the give that mother fucker whichever side of the bed he wants. And since the only other person who has ever slept in that bed with me has been my ex (and that has been nearly 8 months ago), I have not set up any “you are here” maps with an x clearly on the door side of the bed. Why does this matter? Because everyone knows that sleeping closest to the door is just dangerous. And irresponsible. And that I never EVER do it. Except Saturday night, evidently.

2.      I watched Robin Hood last night. What’s weird about that, you ask? There is an entire song of whistling. Anyone who knows me knows nothing gets under my skin like whistling. Except last night. Last night I thought, “this is a catchy little ditty.” Even crazier, the person watching it with me whistled and nothing happened. No skin crawling, no clenched toes and wanting to cut off my ears. Instead, I thought, “he’s pretty spot on.” What the hell is wrong with me?

3.      I ate healthy food this morning AND did an hour and a half of yoga at 6am, sans real sleep. Healthy food? Exercise before 5pm? This is uncalled for. Tonight I will down a tube of cookie dough and watch terrible TV shows from my couch with minimal movement just to counter this act of betrayal I have put myself through. Yoga at 6am… Jesus Christ.

4.      It seems my idea of romance is to threaten bodily harm and criminal mischief. Don’t ask. Let’s just say that I know better than to open my mouth. Nothing good or normal ever comes out of it. There is a reasonable me that lives inside of me and is always screaming, “shut your god damn pie hole!” But I never do. And reasonable me is never pleased.  

Speaking of bodily harm, I had a great talk this morning with a recovering sex addict. Here is how it went:

Out of Shape Sex Girl: I had sex last night and I am sore all over.

Me: I am so happy for you!! Leave-you-sore sex is amazing!

Out of Shape Sex Girl: No. It was alright. Nothing mind blowing. It’s just been a while and I am out of sex-shape.

Me: 'Nothing mind blowing' means it was terrible. What did he do wrong?

Out of Shape Sex Girl: He wanted to go for like two or three hours.

Me: Holy shit! God no! That’s a whole Hobbit movie’s worth. Did he warn you or take you through the two hour stretch?

Out of Shape Sex Girl: He warned me so we stopped.

Me: Guys don’t get that. We don’t want hours of sex. I consider myself a sexual person. I don’t even mind sex everyday with someone. But three hour marathons? No. That is god damn ridiculous.

Out of Shape Sex Girl: Don’t worry. I got off twice before it was over.

Me: Oh! Then it couldn’t have been that terrible.

Out of Shape Sex Girl: Meh.

Me: Yeah. I guess once they lay that three hour sex thing out there it kills the mood. Like punching in for work and then watching the clock the whole time.
Out of Shape Sex Girl: Exactly!