Friends Letting Friends Date Drunk

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Who Farted?

No. Seriously. I couldn’t figure out whether it was him or me.

For the last three weeks I’ve been in rapturous bliss. Not only because I’ve been living inside a bottle (or two) of Montepulciano, but also because I’ve been hanging out with a really dope guy. (I know, I’m gushing).

Our interests include:

a) Make people sick by the way that we look at each other
b) Drinking
c) Cooking for each other (Well, he cooks for me…not my fault he went to culinary school)
d) Spending every night together
e) Drinking
f) Saying things that we possibly half mean and making promises we probably cannot keep.
g) Drinking and then saying things that we don't mean at all and making promises we DEFINITELY cannot keep.

So, as you can see, this is a fast train to “Dude shoots wad too early on in relationship, Cookieface ends up on stoop smoking and drinking wine like a pirate sobbing to the homeless person rummaging through her recyclables.”

It’s a pattern but I can’t seem to help myself.

Anyway, last night we brilliantly combined a-g during and after the first double date I’ve ever been on with my best friend. Conveniently, her boyfriend not only works with my New BF, but they are also pretty good friends.

We went to dinner at an old school Italian red sauce joint in our hood where copious amounts of alcohol, garlic, and gossip were consumed. I looked adorable. No really, I wish I had a picture before I started drinking because I sort of looked like this girl (less goth), before I turned into this girl. (Again, less goth).

We gratuitously went out for one more, but I needed to go home so I could tell him how I was sure he was going to break my heart accompanied by the old “I think I’m falling for you.” In other words, it was important that we go home so that I could humiliate myself because that’s my favorite side-effect of drinking.

This morning I sort of half woke up to him spooning me. We sort of kissed and said good morning. It was lovely. I started to drift back to sleep when all of a sudden there was a noise and a vibration.

Startled, I woke up fully. Oh God, I whispered in my head. Did I just fart on him???

I began to get very hot. I have no idea if he noticed or if he was even awake. I started to sweat.

Wait though, I thought. Mine are usually much more intense. Or they burn so I know they are going to smell. This really wasn’t like that. Maybe it was just my stomach (or his) making a noise.

Or maybe it was him.

Honestly, I don’t even know if it was a fart. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it all day.

And it’s not as if I can do detective work to get to the bottom of it. (No pun—no wait, always pun intended).

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Emails I will Never Send #2

Dear Himbo:

How are you?/I don't care. I'm well/Fucking a lot.

So, it's no secret that you are the absolute last person on the planet that I would call if I needed something manly done, like mowing the lawn or shaving. However even i wasn't expecting such a shocking display of cowardice on your part.

I forgave you when you told me (to your credit, a bit sheepishly) that you gave yourself mango facials because I wanted to believe you when you said that it was to prevent breakouts due to your 3 hour gym sessions and I really didn't want you to stop going to the gym because your body was really all you had going for you in the looks department.

I forgave you when you refused to go into Trash & Vaudeville with me because "Baby, it looks scary," despite the fact that 75% of my wardrobe comes from there because hey, I knew you might feel a bit out of place in your lime green polo shirt (collar popped) and Khaki shorts amidst all the pleather.

I even forgave you for not responding to my text message a few weeks after we broke up that read "Hey, just checking in, nothing loaded, hope you are okay," because I figured that you were at a spa getting a paraffin wax treatment with your mama and friends trying to sort out whether you are precious like a baby lamb or precious like a golden angel, and that you probably just didn't get service there.

But REALLY. We were together for five months. You want to open up a line of communication? Send me a text. I'm a texter. Call me. I'll pick up and say hello. Email me. I'm at work all day in front of the computer. If you HAVE to (and I mean as your VERY last resort), send me a message through Face Book. I won't respond to the lameness right away, but I'll acknowledge it in my mind as a half-assed effort.

I am disgusted by what I saw on my Face Book page. Like, horrified, insulted...a little nauseated. We haven't spoken since August. And yet you thought it would be okay to "Poke" me? Like, "Hey friend, been thinkin' about ya!" Wrong kind of poke, asshole.

So FYI, I'm not going to remove you as a friend because I want you to be able to continue to access pictures of my exploits and me looking hot for as long as you like, but I am going to remove your "poke" and not return it. I'm stunned. Truly. Nut up or shut up.


I Can't Believe It's not Butt-his Face Book

(Yes, I'm aware that probably doesn't make sense to you, but it made me laugh, Douche.)

Things that WILL make me Drop my Panties

9) Four words: "I have a job."

8) Skull tattoos. (evidently)

7) The phrase "The drinks are on me." (100% of the time, it works all the time)

6) Roofies. (But honestly, no need. See #8)

5) Joe Tex (look him up)

4) The phrase "Do you want to hear my old band?" (Accidentally, this falls under both the "Drop my panties" list and the "Never drop my panties list," because last week after I had written the latter list, I found myself in a situation where my panties were already halfway off when he asked me if I wanted to hear his death metal band from the early 2000s...perhaps this was planned? A clever ploy? Touche.)

3) Two words: "Health Insurance."

2) The phrase: "Here is my unlimited credit card. Go have fun." (No, I've never heard it and I probably never will, but I figure if I don't get fat, there's a chance).

1) Actually following through with the promised home repairs and improvements. I've had more than a dozen dudes come into my apartment, offer to fix my shelves, construct a bookcase that doubles as a bar, design a bed that solves mysteries and fights crime, and maybe ONE of them has actually followed through. And by this, I mean he changed a light bulb. Begrudgingly.