Friends Letting Friends Date Drunk

Saturday, April 26, 2008

RIP Mr. Wonderful

To be clear, MW is not dead.

However, I am fairly certain I will never hear from him again. Let's go to the tape.


MW grabbed me and pulled me into an ATM vestibule. He leaned in to kiss me. My whole body vomited. I bolted into traffic and dove into a cab through the window.

cut to

*April: A cool crisp day*

I was enjoying a lovely day with my cousin. We had stopped off at a quaint little bar for a couple of glasses (bottles) of wine, when my phone began receiving drunk messages from MW who had just won two grand on a baseball game. (Yes, we can add "severe gambling problem" to "staggering drinking problem" and "questionable fashion sense" and "artless self-congratulation" on the list of MW's attributes. I sure can pick em.).

Now, I do like my men with a little money on the side. But there is little I find more repulsive than a man (or woman for that matter) who brags about the amount of money he or she has. I don't give a shit. Just buy me something and shut your mouth.

So, to make a long, anti-climactic texting tale short, MW informed me that he was in a limo with some friends and they were on their way to pick my cousin and myself up and take us to Atlantic city.

I called him immediately to tell him that, unfortunately, as appealing as riding in a sweaty limo with his sweaty friends was, we had prior engagements that we just couldn't possibly break. However, when he picked up the phone, I soon realized that he was beyond speech.

"Hello, MW?"

"!!!!!!!!. HAHAHAHAHA" (I hear girls screeching in the background)

"Um, MW?"

"WHERE YOU I SHALEGANDFA weiowA:w !!!!!!!!!!"

(More screeching)




"Hi. Who is this?" A somewhat inebriated voice asked.

"This is Cookieface. Who is this?"

"This is MW's friend. Are you coming?"

"Absolutely not."

"Good. You sound like a stupid bitch." *click*


Now I'm sort of stunned for 2 reasons. 1) A stranger just called me a stupid bitch and 2) It was as if this stranger KNEW me.

*The next morning, Sunday, 9 FUCKING AM*

My phone rings.

I look down and it's MW. My cousin has woken up and groggily asks "Who the fuck is calling you so early?"

"MW," I reply. "I am going to pick up because it's going to be funny"

And it was.

A) He did not remember texting me
B) He did not remember speaking to me
C) He woke up in AC next to a half-eaten bucket of chicken, and empty wallet, and no idea how he had gotten there. (Please see my previous post)
D) He thought it was QUITE hilarious that his friend called me a stupid bitch
E) He demonstrated how funny he thought his friend calling me a stupid bitch was by squealing in his high-pitched demonic-mountain goat laugh which my cousin now imitates perfectly.

To wrap things up, the next time I saw MW was the last.
I was out.
He texted me
I told him he could meet me.
He got to the bar.
He started dancing with some strange men
I ignored him.
He left.

And that, my friends, is the end of that.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Drunken Dater's Boyfriend Criteria

1) Must not wear hair in a ponytail. Particularly if he is bald on top.

2) Must not drink so much that he blacks out, kills me, then wakes up, finds me dead beside him next to a bucket of half-eaten fried chicken, and wonders what happened.

3) Must not own a gun.

4) Must not own a chainsaw.

5) Must not own black plastic trash bags.

6) In the event that he does accidentally/purposefully kill me blacked out on alcohol, must not dismember me.

7) Must not cook me. This is VERY important.

8) Must not eat me. This is actually the most important thing that I look for in a that he is not a cannibal. I do not want to be eaten by another human being. Maybe by a tiger, though.

Saturday, April 12, 2008

A Year in Review:

I was sitting here this morning, after an evening of making out with yet another co-worker, (this would be number three…and he’s like 22), reflecting my last pathetic year in dating.

Let’s Review:

The Rockstar: Turn-ons: Cigarettes, cocaine, and not calling me. Other qualities include complaining about his life and not living in my state. Of course one would think that this would be enough deter me, but sadly, this is not the case. I ran into him randomly half a year after we met at a Jersey Turnpike rest stop. Naturally, I think this is fate and the universe is trying to tell me something, and that nothing says love like toilets and Cinnabon. As we’ll explore later, my man IQ rests at a comfortable –10.

My Ex: Turn-ons: Lying, cheating, and not having sex with me. I remember 3 years ago, as I calmly sat in a squat, peeing in his bed after finding out he was porking a ho-bag in his flea-ridden apartment, thinking, I will die before I ever see this twathole again. Sadly, this did not turn out the way I planned.

Mr. Wonderful: Turn-ons: Alcohol, polyester, and cheesy meatpacking district clubs. As we approach the final chapter in the MW saga, I leave you with two words--a teaser if you will: Atlantic. City.

Hmmm. I guess that’s it. Besides the boys I randomly made out with, which include (as of last night) 3 co-workers, a boy in a Philadelphia bathroom (apparently this is a theme), and a large African-American man, that pretty much sums up the very sad state of my dating affairs. MOVING RIGHT ALONG!

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Mr. Wonderful IV

While we were still at the wine bar, I weighed my options: Go home (the option that a normal, well-adjusted person would have chosen), or just drink until MW was tolerable (there aren't enough fruits and roots in the world to produce that amount of alcohol). Of course, I chose the second option, because, let's be real, drinking is not only fun, it is also always the answer when the answer is not crack-cocaine.

So, after making the well thought through decision to drink myself stupid (er), I buckled down and got to work. Wine is for people who want a good nights sleep. Jameson is for people who are committed to the blackout cause.

Which I certainly was.

We went to the dive bar mentioned in my previous MW post. Things I remember from this segment of our date:

A) Talking to two men with a tiny doggy thinking they were gay only to discover that one of them was married and had a daughter.
B) Deciding that the married man was "gay undercover" and giving him knowing looks and winks.
C) Thinking that I really ought to be writing down some of the nonsense that MW was spouting, but then deciding against it, overestimating my "memory skills."

We eventually left that bar and went on to HIS bar. And yes, the name of the bar DOES have an apostrophe, and no, it is neither cool nor fun. Much like Mr. Wonderful.

So there we were. MW was having a really great time showing off his "connections" at this second rate old man bar. He was "in" with the bartenders, the owner "loved" him, and the other patrons were his "best friends." Before entering this bar, he prepped me:

"The guys are probably going to be mad at me."
"Why?" I foolishly inquired.
"Well, last time I drank here, they handed me the bill and I yelled at them."
"Why?" Yes, I have an IQ of 20.
"Because the bill was too small. I threw it back at them."
"Oh...I...see. You wanted to pay more money?"
"Well, you know." He then took out his wallet and started COUNTING DOLLAR BILLS.

This is not a lie.

We walked into the establishment.
Yes. The bartenders knew him.
Yes. He seemed to know quite a few people.
Yes. The owner came over and said hello.
Yes. He ordered Buttery Nipple shots. For the whole bar.

Record scratch.

Apparently, he really loves buttery nipple shots.

Now, I am not one to refuse alcohol. But a Buttery Nipple shot? I drank those when I was 20 and a virgin. (That’s a different story…)

These days, I drink Jameson’s on the rocks like all good grown-up whores. So, I politely refused the Buttery Nipple and passed it on to an older lady sitting at the bar. I then ordered myself the drink I wanted and took a healthy swig.

What MW did next inspired in me both shock and awe. He grabbed the shot I had passed onto the lady and then dumped the whole shot, glass and all into my Jameson’s.

I was stunned. He was pissed. I decided it was time for me to leave.

I did my signature “storm out” of the bar move, that, p.s., I’m actually thinking about patenting.

He of course followed me, and by the time we were halfway down the block I forgot why I was mad.

But then he did something that inspired me to run like I’ve never run before.

He tried to kiss me.

Cut to me running into the street and practically jumping through the window of a cab.

And those of you who know me know that if I’m drunk enough, I’ll pretty much make out with anything.

And I was drunk enough. That’s pretty bad.

And it’s not over! Stay tuned for MW V…THE SAGA CONTINUES!!!

Monday, April 7, 2008

Barnes and Nobel and Lesbian Porn-Travel

Apparently, the place to meet people in Manhattan is the travel section in the Barnes and Noble in Union Square.

I say apparently, because that’s where, a few weekends ago I was accosted by two men and one woman.

(And, of course, accosted is a wild exaggeration. Apparently I think that if someone speaks to me in a public forum other than a bar I am being accosted).

What was I doing in a bookstore in the first place? Much less the travel section? I mean, let’s be clear: I only read books that contain gratuitous sex, gratuitous violence, and/or gratuitous incest. “Virginia: A Historical Guide to her Plantations and National Parks” has none of those things.

In truth, the travel section borders the Gay and Lesbian section.

For me, the Gay and Lesbian section of the Barnes and Nobel holds much intrigue. See, unlike Matthew Mcconaughey’s pants, I have no idea what is in there because I’ve never had the courage to step inside.

What are the books like? Are they like books like…“Gone with the Wind” but only everyone’s gay? Or, are they all coming of gay stories? Or are they just books filled with straight up kinky sex? (This is obviously what I’m hoping for).

So basically, I was hiding in the travel section trying to muster up the courage to make my way into the Gay and Lesbian section. I was about to leave the safety of the widely accepted travel section when an overly loud voice stopped me in my tracks.


Startled, I looked up from the “Bosnia on a Shoestring Budget” I was pretending to read, and found a very smiley, portly man wearing a trench coat. Panicked, my eyes darted wildly around, hoping that he was speaking to someone else. He wasn’t.

“Um. Yes?”


I had a choice. I could relent and have a conversation with this man, who was clearly harmless, and whom I’m sure was very pleasant…OR I could close my eyes, clamp my fingers over my ears and count from 1 to 10 as loudly as I dared and hope that he disappeared by the time I reached 10.

I obviously chose the second option.

When I opened my eyes, my portly friend was gone. I looked to the left and to the right. Okay. The coast was clear. It was time to make my way to the Gay and Lesbian section.

I took a deep breath. And-

“Excuse me!”

I turned. There stood a very attractive young man wearing hiking gear and carrying a backpack. (I mean, I realize I was in the travel section, but COME ON. Was the trail mix attached to his climbing tool belt really necessary? Was he planning on scaling the escalators?)

“Um. Yes?”

“Do you know which brand is the best?” He asked me.

“Um. Brand? Of Book?”

“Yes!” (He might as well have said “Nuh duh!”

“Um, I’m sorry. No. I don’t.”

“Oh,” he said.

Clearly disappointed in my lack of travel-book knowledge, he turned away. Two seconds later, a semi-attractive girl walked into our aisle. I guess he only had one pick up line cause he proceeded to ask her which brand was best. She knew the answer, probably because she was actually in the travel section to find travel books as opposed to biding time before she went to gape over gay porn, and of course this little conversation ended in her giving him her number. I mean. REALLY?

Shaking it off, I kept the goal in mind. Just like a mountain climber thinks to himself, “I am going to make it to the top of Mount Everest,” I thought “I’m going to make it to the Gay and Lesbian section of Barnes and Nobel.”

It was not to be.

Here’s what happened:

I was slowly making my way, much like a hero in slow motion walking away from an exploding building right after he’s saved a family of orphans, to my destination. I was almost halfway there when a woman popped up in front of me and said:

“Hi! Do you know where the books on New York are?”

Smiling, I pointed to the New York aisles that couldn’t have been in more plain sight if they had had flashing, blinking, neon signs pointing to them.

“Oh, thanks! By the way, my name is Chris!”

“Oh…hi,” I replied, confused.

I was also frightened. Why the fuck were people so friendly in the goddamn travel section???

“And your name is…?” she enthusiastically prompted.

That was the last straw.

I put my head down and mumbled, “I don’t know, I have to go,” and turned, head still down, and walked rapidly to the escalators.

Before leaving the bookstore, I probably should have stopped by the self-help section seeing as how I seem to have people skill issues, and have an unnatural gay porn obsession, but it was almost 5pm and it was time to start drinking.

Lessons learned:

1) Order gay and lesbian literature off of the internet. This is, after all, what it’s for.
2) Put on makeup the next time I go to Barnes and Nobel. I seem to do very well in their travel section.

Saturday, April 5, 2008


I would like to say that I went out with MW one last time for a reason other than making myself and my friends laugh. But this would be a lie.


The number of times I thought to myself "I HAVE to remember what he just said so that I can make fun of him later." 1,007

The number of things I said I had to remember that I actually remembered . 1

The number of times I laughed at his jokes: 0

The number of times he laughed at his jokes: 550

The number of times I cringed out of embarrassment: 4000

The number of Jamesons on the rocks I consumed: 91, 459

We met at a wine bar. He had arrived before me, and had helpfully ordered a bottle of, and I quote, "I don't know exactly what it is...I just told the waiter to bring me something expensive."

Please note that he says this to me without actually looking at me. In fact, although I was sitting right next to him, MW did not turn his head once to look at me the entire time we were at the wine bar. It was one of the oddest things I had ever experienced. He just sat there, arms folded, looking straight ahead. A sample conversation:

Me: So, how was your day?

MW: *Staring straight ahead* It was...(heh heh) good. (Smiling secretly to himself as if to indicate that his day went just a little bit better than he had chosen to share.

Me: *Taking bait* Sounds like it! What happened?

MW: *Staring straight ahead* Nothing. (Secretive smile turning into a full on grin, shakes head slowly back and forth, apparently reliving his good day.

Me: *Confused* Oh...

MW: *Staring straight ahead*(Practically shoving hand in mouth to keep from giggling over his glorious day). How was YOUR day?

Me: Well, it was-
MW: *Staring straight ahead* (Laughing hysterically). I'm sorry, It's day...

And this went on. A few times his eyes crept to the corners and deigned to glance upon me, but for the most part they were fixed straight ahead.

We then went to a dive bar. Here is where I wish I could remember the things he said...but because they were so brilliantly conceited, I was forced to dive head first into a bottle of Jamesons just to stick around...which I did for the soul purpose of recounting to my friends later the conceited things he said . Sigh. I live in a perpetual catch 22.