I saw a really hot homeless man.
Shyly, I glanced his way. He looked at me and gave me an impish grin. And then went back to rummaging through the trashcan.
I walked on air for the rest of the day.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
How I Know I May have just had Sex with a Sociopath
He declared his love for me over and over again before, he called my (throat clear) "vagina" my (double throat clear) "Shame-Shame," during, and instantly rolled off of me, walked over to the couch, and settled in to read New York Post directly followed by The Daily News after.*
This happened every. Single. Time. We. Did. It. The. Exact. Same. Way.
Yes, i realize that some of you probably consider him a hero.
I sort of do too.
*Eventually, I would try to get up first and beat him to the couch, reasoning that somehow this was salvaging some sense of pride. And so that I could do the crossword in the Daily News before he read it.
This happened every. Single. Time. We. Did. It. The. Exact. Same. Way.
Yes, i realize that some of you probably consider him a hero.
I sort of do too.
*Eventually, I would try to get up first and beat him to the couch, reasoning that somehow this was salvaging some sense of pride. And so that I could do the crossword in the Daily News before he read it.
How I Know The Sex is Going to Be Bad
He smokes a bong in front of you right before and doesn't offer you any.
How I know it's about to be Shark Week*
1) I burst into tears because the moon is so beautifully terrible
2) I review my Netflix Queue.
* To be clear, Shark Week is referring to the week when I experience womanly nature, not to the A&E special that airs once a year. Check your local listings.
2) I review my Netflix Queue.
* To be clear, Shark Week is referring to the week when I experience womanly nature, not to the A&E special that airs once a year. Check your local listings.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Things I learned in Vegas
1) Drinking at breakfast is one of my favorite things to do. Second only to drinking all day.
2) The Playboy Club is very different from The Playboy Mansion. Who was to know?
3) People in Vegas take their pants off when you tell them to take their pants off. I know this because I told three people to take their pants off and all three of them took their pants off. This never happens in New York. Read: At work.
4) It is possible to eat breakfast twice and pass out twice with two different people in two different rooms in one night.
5) People are actually more dumb and more pathetic than I thought. And I am currently watching a commercial for "The Greatest American Dog" where human beings are asking dogs questions like "What do you think of Obama's health care plan?" and then pausing for a response. My dog liked to sniff other dogs butts. And lick where his balls should have been.
6) I perfected my theory on the "Hot Stupid Guy and his Ugly but much Funnier, Intelligent, Charming Friend," which I will explore in future posts.
7) I don't sweat as much in dry heat, but my hair grows twice as fast.
8) I shouldn't drink two martinis, 4 glasses of wine, eat 3 pounds of sushi, 1 large cup of TCBY frozen yogurt, and 1/4th a bag of Chinese rice crunch mix before getting on a redeye back to New York. It was unpleasant for both myself and the two unlucky individuals that were seated next to me. (But still, kind of funny for me).
2) The Playboy Club is very different from The Playboy Mansion. Who was to know?
3) People in Vegas take their pants off when you tell them to take their pants off. I know this because I told three people to take their pants off and all three of them took their pants off. This never happens in New York. Read: At work.
4) It is possible to eat breakfast twice and pass out twice with two different people in two different rooms in one night.
5) People are actually more dumb and more pathetic than I thought. And I am currently watching a commercial for "The Greatest American Dog" where human beings are asking dogs questions like "What do you think of Obama's health care plan?" and then pausing for a response. My dog liked to sniff other dogs butts. And lick where his balls should have been.
6) I perfected my theory on the "Hot Stupid Guy and his Ugly but much Funnier, Intelligent, Charming Friend," which I will explore in future posts.
7) I don't sweat as much in dry heat, but my hair grows twice as fast.
8) I shouldn't drink two martinis, 4 glasses of wine, eat 3 pounds of sushi, 1 large cup of TCBY frozen yogurt, and 1/4th a bag of Chinese rice crunch mix before getting on a redeye back to New York. It was unpleasant for both myself and the two unlucky individuals that were seated next to me. (But still, kind of funny for me).
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
How Am I Supposed To Live In A World That Allows Coldplay To Exist?
Things that Have Delighted Me this Week:
1) The mildly racist Six Flags Commercial. (Or should I say "Six Frags?") Hehe.
2) This:
3) Well. I didn't want to brag, but my pee on Sunday was thick and milky, like Iced Tea.
Things that have confused me this week:
1) Paul Bunyan. Turns out he wasn't an actual historical figure, like Robin Hood, and his Band of Thieves. It turns out he was a myth, like Jesus.
2) The phone system at my place of work. You see, I managed to not only interrupt a conference call including four of the most important people at The Bank when I picked up the wrong line and confirmed a lunch order for an MD, asserting "Yes, that was turkey on whole-wheat, please hold the mayo," but I also managed to disconnect the meeting...twice.
3) I got it on with a 39 year old man whose nickname is "Spider." Yes, his friends call him Spider. *exasperated sigh*
Things that have pissed me off this week:
1) My ears and eyes were violently assaulted by a certain commercial featuring Coldplay. Why, God. Why? What have I done to deserve this? Fuck. It just came on again. They should change their name to "We are Pansies." Or maybe just "Assholes."
2) Bicyclists. On the sidewalk. Dinging their fucking bells for me to move out of the way. The only way I could hate Coldplay more would be if its members were riding their bikes on the sidewalk.
And if instead of a dinging sound, their music played when they hit their bells. Assholes.
3) Liars. For example, I was told that "Juno" was cute and funny. Clearly my sense of humor is different than that of Liars. Because what I saw was a younger, seriously less funny version of Janine Garafolo reciting lines written by someone who desperately wants to be seen as cool. "The Stooges are rad." How HIP. And the soundtrack sucked. I wouldn't be surprised if Chris Martin selected every single song. Asshole.
1) The mildly racist Six Flags Commercial. (Or should I say "Six Frags?") Hehe.
2) This:
3) Well. I didn't want to brag, but my pee on Sunday was thick and milky, like Iced Tea.
Things that have confused me this week:
1) Paul Bunyan. Turns out he wasn't an actual historical figure, like Robin Hood, and his Band of Thieves. It turns out he was a myth, like Jesus.
2) The phone system at my place of work. You see, I managed to not only interrupt a conference call including four of the most important people at The Bank when I picked up the wrong line and confirmed a lunch order for an MD, asserting "Yes, that was turkey on whole-wheat, please hold the mayo," but I also managed to disconnect the meeting...twice.
3) I got it on with a 39 year old man whose nickname is "Spider." Yes, his friends call him Spider. *exasperated sigh*
Things that have pissed me off this week:
1) My ears and eyes were violently assaulted by a certain commercial featuring Coldplay. Why, God. Why? What have I done to deserve this? Fuck. It just came on again. They should change their name to "We are Pansies." Or maybe just "Assholes."
2) Bicyclists. On the sidewalk. Dinging their fucking bells for me to move out of the way. The only way I could hate Coldplay more would be if its members were riding their bikes on the sidewalk.
And if instead of a dinging sound, their music played when they hit their bells. Assholes.
3) Liars. For example, I was told that "Juno" was cute and funny. Clearly my sense of humor is different than that of Liars. Because what I saw was a younger, seriously less funny version of Janine Garafolo reciting lines written by someone who desperately wants to be seen as cool. "The Stooges are rad." How HIP. And the soundtrack sucked. I wouldn't be surprised if Chris Martin selected every single song. Asshole.
Friday, June 6, 2008
People Who Hate Me "The Balloon Pops"
I’m not saying I’m a perfectly innocent player in this scene. I was clearly not at my most sensitive at that particular moment. Looking back, here is how I remember it:
1) I bought a shot for my good friends in an attempt to have a bonding moment.
2) I was momentarily distracted by a good-looking bartender.
3) I was deeply hurt to discover that my bonding shot did not mean as much to Balloon as it did to me.
4) I meekly asked “Balloon, why did you give my shot away? That was for the three of us to do together.”
5) “YOU WERE BUSY, YOU SHALLOW BITCH” Balloon spit back, and then proceeded to burst into tears and run, arms flailing into the ladies room.
What probably happened:
1) I bought a shot for my good friends in an attempt to get more wasted
2) I saw a cute boy, forgot about the shot and my friends, and decided to flirt.
3) I was fucking pissed to discover that that Balloon Bitch had given my shot away.
4) I said “What the fuck, Balloon? Why you gotta be givin my shot away?”
5) Balloon looked me coldly in the eye, said, “You were busy,” and then stormed off to the ladies room where she then burst into tears because I hurt her feelings.
I’m sure what happened rests somewhere in the middle. All I know is that despite my attempts to apologize to Balloon that night, the fact of the matter is she burst into tears, ran away from me, and then squirreled herself away into a stall of the ladies room, sobbing to AB about how awful I was.
Fair enough. I was not on my best behavior that night. I’ll admit it. But I also hadn’t done anything intentionally to hurt her.
We had one more day in Chicago. I apologized my brains out to Balloon. I thanked her again and again for having me at her house. She seemed to accept my apology…even though I was slightly confused as to what I was apologizing for. I mean, even if I had snapped at her, it wouldn’t have been THAT awful…that’s something I can apologize for and something that I think can be fairly easily forgiven. We had been friends for 4 years at this point…me snapping at her one night when I was drunk hardly seemed to warrant the volume of hurt and pain that I had apparently caused her.
I left Chicago feeling like a bully. I truly felt awful. That is, until I made a little discovery while unpacking my suitcase.
There, resting on top of my clothing was a Hallmark envelope with my name printed neatly on the outside. Curious, of course, I opened up the envelope and found a glossy greeting card featuring two little girls on a bench holding hands.
Oh, how I wish I hadn’t lost/thrown away this card so I could reprint verbatim what it said.
At some point, (according to the letter, 2am the morning before I left while scarfing down half a gallon of ice cream), Balloon had written (poorly) on this card all of the reasons why she didn’t want to be friends with me anymore.
The well thought out points that I committed to memory:
1) “All you care about is boys.” (Not true, Balloon. All I care about is myself).
2) “You are shallow and simple minded” (I am the first to admit I’m shallow. I don’t want to be deep. I find “deep” self-indulgent and boring. And my “simple” mind managed to garner me $20,000 dollars worth of scholarships to one of the top 50 schools in the country (at the time). So. Fuck. You.
And number 3, this one kills me:
3) “You don’t care about important issues like I do, like genital mutilation in Africa.” (I scrunched my nose and narrowed my eyes and thought to myself “What’s genital mutilation?”)
So it went. I was neither smart enough nor was I profound enough to be worthy of her friendship. I wrote her a quick email saying something along the lines of “I understand and respect your decision. But know that I will always be here for you if you need me.” Not because I meant it. No, if that bitch asked me for a favor, I tell her to stuff her beaker-shaped face in a pile of farts and inhale.
I wrote it to be a martyr.
Now, you may be wondering why I’m still bitter about Balloon now, 8 years later.
Well, the truth is, I’m not. I’m way over it. In fact, I’m so far over it that I thought I would reach out and say hi to her on “Facebook.” Her best friend from childhood had friended me. She was apparently friends with AB. I might as well give it a shot, right?
So I do a search looking for Balloon on Facebook. I can’t find her. Now, I’m confused. Apparently, she’s left comments on AB’s page, but I don’t see anything. And I KNOW she’s on there because AB has told me as much.
I call AB.
“AB, why can’t I find Balloon on Facebook?”
“She’s on there! That’s weird,” replied AB.
Silence.
“Oh my God,” AB whispered. “She’s blocked you.”
“She what?” I asked.
“She’s BLOCKED you! That’s what you do to people who are stalking you or something.”
We both burst into laughter.
Balloon blocked me so that we could never be friends on Facebook. Because apparently, she wants to send a message that we will never be friends, either in real life or on the fucking computer. My very existence bothers her.
Is it wrong that this brings me some sort of sick pleasure?
My 10-year high school reunion is coming up. I am seriously considering going for the sole purpose of looking smoking hot and saying hi to everyone around her except for her.
And if she did have the stones to say “Hello” I would reply, “I can’t see you. I’m blocked.”
Asshole.
P.S. I think it’s fucking hilarious that I’ve given this girl the pseudonym “Balloon.” It works on so many levels.
See. I am fucking deep.
Gay-ass douchebag.
1) I bought a shot for my good friends in an attempt to have a bonding moment.
2) I was momentarily distracted by a good-looking bartender.
3) I was deeply hurt to discover that my bonding shot did not mean as much to Balloon as it did to me.
4) I meekly asked “Balloon, why did you give my shot away? That was for the three of us to do together.”
5) “YOU WERE BUSY, YOU SHALLOW BITCH” Balloon spit back, and then proceeded to burst into tears and run, arms flailing into the ladies room.
What probably happened:
1) I bought a shot for my good friends in an attempt to get more wasted
2) I saw a cute boy, forgot about the shot and my friends, and decided to flirt.
3) I was fucking pissed to discover that that Balloon Bitch had given my shot away.
4) I said “What the fuck, Balloon? Why you gotta be givin my shot away?”
5) Balloon looked me coldly in the eye, said, “You were busy,” and then stormed off to the ladies room where she then burst into tears because I hurt her feelings.
I’m sure what happened rests somewhere in the middle. All I know is that despite my attempts to apologize to Balloon that night, the fact of the matter is she burst into tears, ran away from me, and then squirreled herself away into a stall of the ladies room, sobbing to AB about how awful I was.
Fair enough. I was not on my best behavior that night. I’ll admit it. But I also hadn’t done anything intentionally to hurt her.
We had one more day in Chicago. I apologized my brains out to Balloon. I thanked her again and again for having me at her house. She seemed to accept my apology…even though I was slightly confused as to what I was apologizing for. I mean, even if I had snapped at her, it wouldn’t have been THAT awful…that’s something I can apologize for and something that I think can be fairly easily forgiven. We had been friends for 4 years at this point…me snapping at her one night when I was drunk hardly seemed to warrant the volume of hurt and pain that I had apparently caused her.
I left Chicago feeling like a bully. I truly felt awful. That is, until I made a little discovery while unpacking my suitcase.
There, resting on top of my clothing was a Hallmark envelope with my name printed neatly on the outside. Curious, of course, I opened up the envelope and found a glossy greeting card featuring two little girls on a bench holding hands.
Oh, how I wish I hadn’t lost/thrown away this card so I could reprint verbatim what it said.
At some point, (according to the letter, 2am the morning before I left while scarfing down half a gallon of ice cream), Balloon had written (poorly) on this card all of the reasons why she didn’t want to be friends with me anymore.
The well thought out points that I committed to memory:
1) “All you care about is boys.” (Not true, Balloon. All I care about is myself).
2) “You are shallow and simple minded” (I am the first to admit I’m shallow. I don’t want to be deep. I find “deep” self-indulgent and boring. And my “simple” mind managed to garner me $20,000 dollars worth of scholarships to one of the top 50 schools in the country (at the time). So. Fuck. You.
And number 3, this one kills me:
3) “You don’t care about important issues like I do, like genital mutilation in Africa.” (I scrunched my nose and narrowed my eyes and thought to myself “What’s genital mutilation?”)
So it went. I was neither smart enough nor was I profound enough to be worthy of her friendship. I wrote her a quick email saying something along the lines of “I understand and respect your decision. But know that I will always be here for you if you need me.” Not because I meant it. No, if that bitch asked me for a favor, I tell her to stuff her beaker-shaped face in a pile of farts and inhale.
I wrote it to be a martyr.
Now, you may be wondering why I’m still bitter about Balloon now, 8 years later.
Well, the truth is, I’m not. I’m way over it. In fact, I’m so far over it that I thought I would reach out and say hi to her on “Facebook.” Her best friend from childhood had friended me. She was apparently friends with AB. I might as well give it a shot, right?
So I do a search looking for Balloon on Facebook. I can’t find her. Now, I’m confused. Apparently, she’s left comments on AB’s page, but I don’t see anything. And I KNOW she’s on there because AB has told me as much.
I call AB.
“AB, why can’t I find Balloon on Facebook?”
“She’s on there! That’s weird,” replied AB.
Silence.
“Oh my God,” AB whispered. “She’s blocked you.”
“She what?” I asked.
“She’s BLOCKED you! That’s what you do to people who are stalking you or something.”
We both burst into laughter.
Balloon blocked me so that we could never be friends on Facebook. Because apparently, she wants to send a message that we will never be friends, either in real life or on the fucking computer. My very existence bothers her.
Is it wrong that this brings me some sort of sick pleasure?
My 10-year high school reunion is coming up. I am seriously considering going for the sole purpose of looking smoking hot and saying hi to everyone around her except for her.
And if she did have the stones to say “Hello” I would reply, “I can’t see you. I’m blocked.”
Asshole.
P.S. I think it’s fucking hilarious that I’ve given this girl the pseudonym “Balloon.” It works on so many levels.
See. I am fucking deep.
Gay-ass douchebag.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
People Who Hate Me
My sophomore year of high school, my English class was assigned one of those gay-ass group projects. I couldn't tell you what the project was for, but I am positive it was gay-ass. Kind of like Full House except even more gay-ass. Kind of like your cat, but even MORE gay-ass.
My best friend AB and I usually worked on these gay-ass projects together. We were and still are very gay-ass for each other. Now, in this class, there was a girl who was...different. It wasn't that she was weird or freaky, exactly. She was one of those girls who had grown up with a group of friends, but when they hit high school those friends all became popular and pretty much left her behind. She was pear-shaped, dumpy, had frizzy hair, and was smart, but was the kind of person who believed that her intelligence WAS her IDENTITY and whose self-esteem was reliant upon the fact that everyone knew how smart she was. My self-esteem rested on how skinny everybody thought I was, so, on a weird level, I could relate. One of my great failings as an asshole is that I am immediately attracted to the underdog.
I couldn't tell you how it came about that AB and I asked her to join our group to work on that gay-ass project. All I know is that subsequent to working on the project, we all started to hang out together--Mostly at each other's houses. We would sit around and do the thing that I now hate more than anything--we would talk ad nausium about our insecurities.
So this sort of weird trifecta formed. AB and I already seemed like unlikely friends to those who didn't know us, and the addition of this girl, we'll call her "Balloon," was just kind of bizarre. But i felt safe with these girls--I trusted them...and I didn't trust anybody. Except for Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
We remained friends through our senior year of high school. We all ended up going to different universities, but AB and I both kept in touch with Balloon, and we were invited out to Chicago where she was in school to visit her our junior year of college.
Now, I was a bit of a late bloomer. As you know, I didn't even go on my first date until I was 17, and that was when I received my first real "kiss/mauling." AB had to explain to me what a blow-job was when I was 16. And then had to draw me a diagram. And THEN had to draw me a diagram of the male body. And THEN had to draw me a diagram of the female body. And then had to blow her boyfriend in front of me so I would finally understand what she was talking about. (That actually didn't happen...but, really, it might have helped. Thanks A LOT AB. I blame you for my weak fellatio).
As such, once I got to college, I "discovered" boys. And they "discovered" me. I learned how to flirt (badly), I learned how to drink (successfully...after a few mis-fires), and I learned how to tease (my 1 truest talent). To be clear, I was a virgin until I was 21.
I tell you this because by the time I reached my Junior year of college, I was a seasoned flirt, drinker, and tease. Going out was a bloodsport to me.
The three of us reconvened in Chicago. Immediately I felt a sort of tension between myself and Balloon. AB and I had sort of developed in the same manner after we got to college. We both drank our faces off, smoked cigarettes, dated people who were wrong for us where as Balloon had stayed pretty much the same.
Our last night there, we went out to a club in downtown Chicago. We went with a group of Balloon's friends, some of whom happened to be boys. We were drinking a lot, but I wasn't shitfaced by any means. By the time we got to the club, it was pretty clear that AB had the monopoly on the boys we were with. This was fine with me. I went off to try to find other boys to flirt with. I guess I did. That part's pretty blurry. What I remember happening next was the series of events that ruined my relationship with Balloon forever and that spawned a piece of literature (cough) that I found on a greeting card in my suitcase when I returned to New Orleans:
a) I decided that the best way to fix any awkwardness was to bond via the drink. The profound drink that I chose for myself, AB, and Balloon was the ever poignant Buttery Nipple shot.
b) I noticed that the bartender was obscenely hot. Tattoos, piercings, spiky hair. A Cookieface special.
c) I noticed that he had forgotten to put the cherry in our buttery nipples.
d) I hastily handed the shots to Balloon, and then used the lack of nipple to flirt shamelessly with the hot bartender.
f) When I finally turned around to take the shot that I had bought for the three of us, I watched as Balloon gave my shot away to one of her friends.
It's so stupid, but I was upset. Because I was drunk. And because I was drunk, I said so.
Which unleashed in Balloon a flood of animosity toward me that she had apparently been holding onto since the day she and I met.
Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion, and the letter that ended it all....
My best friend AB and I usually worked on these gay-ass projects together. We were and still are very gay-ass for each other. Now, in this class, there was a girl who was...different. It wasn't that she was weird or freaky, exactly. She was one of those girls who had grown up with a group of friends, but when they hit high school those friends all became popular and pretty much left her behind. She was pear-shaped, dumpy, had frizzy hair, and was smart, but was the kind of person who believed that her intelligence WAS her IDENTITY and whose self-esteem was reliant upon the fact that everyone knew how smart she was. My self-esteem rested on how skinny everybody thought I was, so, on a weird level, I could relate. One of my great failings as an asshole is that I am immediately attracted to the underdog.
I couldn't tell you how it came about that AB and I asked her to join our group to work on that gay-ass project. All I know is that subsequent to working on the project, we all started to hang out together--Mostly at each other's houses. We would sit around and do the thing that I now hate more than anything--we would talk ad nausium about our insecurities.
So this sort of weird trifecta formed. AB and I already seemed like unlikely friends to those who didn't know us, and the addition of this girl, we'll call her "Balloon," was just kind of bizarre. But i felt safe with these girls--I trusted them...and I didn't trust anybody. Except for Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
We remained friends through our senior year of high school. We all ended up going to different universities, but AB and I both kept in touch with Balloon, and we were invited out to Chicago where she was in school to visit her our junior year of college.
Now, I was a bit of a late bloomer. As you know, I didn't even go on my first date until I was 17, and that was when I received my first real "kiss/mauling." AB had to explain to me what a blow-job was when I was 16. And then had to draw me a diagram. And THEN had to draw me a diagram of the male body. And THEN had to draw me a diagram of the female body. And then had to blow her boyfriend in front of me so I would finally understand what she was talking about. (That actually didn't happen...but, really, it might have helped. Thanks A LOT AB. I blame you for my weak fellatio).
As such, once I got to college, I "discovered" boys. And they "discovered" me. I learned how to flirt (badly), I learned how to drink (successfully...after a few mis-fires), and I learned how to tease (my 1 truest talent). To be clear, I was a virgin until I was 21.
I tell you this because by the time I reached my Junior year of college, I was a seasoned flirt, drinker, and tease. Going out was a bloodsport to me.
The three of us reconvened in Chicago. Immediately I felt a sort of tension between myself and Balloon. AB and I had sort of developed in the same manner after we got to college. We both drank our faces off, smoked cigarettes, dated people who were wrong for us where as Balloon had stayed pretty much the same.
Our last night there, we went out to a club in downtown Chicago. We went with a group of Balloon's friends, some of whom happened to be boys. We were drinking a lot, but I wasn't shitfaced by any means. By the time we got to the club, it was pretty clear that AB had the monopoly on the boys we were with. This was fine with me. I went off to try to find other boys to flirt with. I guess I did. That part's pretty blurry. What I remember happening next was the series of events that ruined my relationship with Balloon forever and that spawned a piece of literature (cough) that I found on a greeting card in my suitcase when I returned to New Orleans:
a) I decided that the best way to fix any awkwardness was to bond via the drink. The profound drink that I chose for myself, AB, and Balloon was the ever poignant Buttery Nipple shot.
b) I noticed that the bartender was obscenely hot. Tattoos, piercings, spiky hair. A Cookieface special.
c) I noticed that he had forgotten to put the cherry in our buttery nipples.
d) I hastily handed the shots to Balloon, and then used the lack of nipple to flirt shamelessly with the hot bartender.
f) When I finally turned around to take the shot that I had bought for the three of us, I watched as Balloon gave my shot away to one of her friends.
It's so stupid, but I was upset. Because I was drunk. And because I was drunk, I said so.
Which unleashed in Balloon a flood of animosity toward me that she had apparently been holding onto since the day she and I met.
Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion, and the letter that ended it all....
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Memorial Day Weekend Recap
Number of Drinks Consumed: 12,048
Number of calories I consumed: 500,000,000
Number of cigarettes I smoked: 9,000
Number of times my heart almost stopped: 3
Number of boys I made out with: 2
Number of boys I went home with: 2
Number of boys I went home with over the age of twenty-three: 1
Number of sailors I went home with: 0
Number of bartenders I went home with: 1
Number of tattoos he had: 401
Combined weight of boys i hooked up with: 160
Number of dogs that I took care of that quite possibly had the mange: 1
All and all a pretty solid weekend. Well, all was solid except for what came from my bowels. Not so solid. Ew.
Number of calories I consumed: 500,000,000
Number of cigarettes I smoked: 9,000
Number of times my heart almost stopped: 3
Number of boys I made out with: 2
Number of boys I went home with: 2
Number of boys I went home with over the age of twenty-three: 1
Number of sailors I went home with: 0
Number of bartenders I went home with: 1
Number of tattoos he had: 401
Combined weight of boys i hooked up with: 160
Number of dogs that I took care of that quite possibly had the mange: 1
All and all a pretty solid weekend. Well, all was solid except for what came from my bowels. Not so solid. Ew.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Top Embarassing Moments that have Happened to Me Since I Started Drinking
Valentine's Day, 2000. New Orleans.
It was my 3rd date with Keith, who would go on to be my boyfriend for 2 years. Keith had all the credentials I was looking for in a boy: 1) He had good looks 2) He had a car 3) He had multiple piercings 4) He had a record 5) The most serious of the charges, 4 counts of attempted rape, had been dropped.
So obviously, I was in love.
I've always really enjoyed Valentines day. I like candy. I like flowers. I like love. I LOVE wine. What's not to like?
Not knowing where he was taking me on our Valentine's day date, I was very meticulous about my outfit. I settled on this shiny deep blue velveteen mini-skirt two-piece that looked purple in some light, and 3 inch white heeled sandals. I looked trashy enough to go anywhere in New Orleans.
Armed with the carton of cigarettes I had carefully selected earlier that day for him as a gift, I was ready. If not at all classy.
He picked me up and presented me with roses, a mix tape, and a necklace. I was appropriately shocked/grateful/sheepishly apologetic for the missing packs of cigarettes that had mysteriously made their way into my purse. We then drove to the bar where he worked for pre-dinner drinks.
Now, I know this may be hard to believe, but there was a time when I didn't drink that much.
*record scratch*
Yes, it's true.
And I certainly wasn't a big vodka drinker. Perhaps because I was nervous, perhaps because I was thirsty, perhaps because I was a moron, I slurped down two big vodka tonics in about half an hour.
By the time we got to the restaurant, (which was one of the best in New Orleans), I was more than a little tipsy.
We were seated in an outdoor courtyard amongst some of New Orleans finest. Keith ordered a bottle of wine, two turtle soups (delicious!), and I got half a chicken.
We drank the first bottle of wine in a matter of minutes. Out came the second bottle. Now, I must explain that i have a serious issue eating in front of people, particularly boys I like. I will address this problem in a future post, but I would just as soon everyone believe that I exist by photosynthesis.
I have never had a problem drinking in front of anyone, particularly boys I like.
We are now on the third bottle of wine. Because I have this eating issue, I had had maybe two bites of soup and one bite of my chicken. I had probably at this point had 5 full glasses of wine and two vodka tonics. I was shitfaced.
All of a sudden, I remembered something.
I had my period. But because I was weird and hadn't yet figured out how to put in a tampon, and because of the nature of my outfit, I had decided to just fold a bunch of toilet-paper into my underwear. I never claimed to be a smart girl.
I stood up.
You know when you stand up and the whole world flips and spins and you go rushing into the vortex of hell? I took a deep breath, and then teetered around the courtyard, briefly stopping at a table occupied by an elderly couple to check in on them during their date. I then tried to sit on the gentleman's lap.
Keith watched the whole thing, and found this all hilarious. The waitstaff, however, did not. The manager collected me off of the geriatric patients lap and escorted me to the Ladies Room.
I proceeded to hurl my face off.
I then made the executive decision to spend the night in the toilet, and laid my head down on the seat and passed out.
The next thing I remember is Keith busting into the stall holding a glass of wine and a cigarette. I remember him setting down the glass of wine. Still smoking, he picked me up like a rag doll and stuck his finger down my throat.
I barfed some more.
Then i heard:
"Oh my God! Is your nose is bleeding?!"
Even as I wiped vomit off of my forehead, I realized what had happened.
The tissues I had stuffed in my panties had fallen out onto the floor, and Keith, bless his soul, thought my nose was bleeding.
Sick.
Post Script: I told him I loved him. He quoted True Romance in response. Thus kicked off a trend that would continue with all of my boyfriends.
It was my 3rd date with Keith, who would go on to be my boyfriend for 2 years. Keith had all the credentials I was looking for in a boy: 1) He had good looks 2) He had a car 3) He had multiple piercings 4) He had a record 5) The most serious of the charges, 4 counts of attempted rape, had been dropped.
So obviously, I was in love.
I've always really enjoyed Valentines day. I like candy. I like flowers. I like love. I LOVE wine. What's not to like?
Not knowing where he was taking me on our Valentine's day date, I was very meticulous about my outfit. I settled on this shiny deep blue velveteen mini-skirt two-piece that looked purple in some light, and 3 inch white heeled sandals. I looked trashy enough to go anywhere in New Orleans.
Armed with the carton of cigarettes I had carefully selected earlier that day for him as a gift, I was ready. If not at all classy.
He picked me up and presented me with roses, a mix tape, and a necklace. I was appropriately shocked/grateful/sheepishly apologetic for the missing packs of cigarettes that had mysteriously made their way into my purse. We then drove to the bar where he worked for pre-dinner drinks.
Now, I know this may be hard to believe, but there was a time when I didn't drink that much.
*record scratch*
Yes, it's true.
And I certainly wasn't a big vodka drinker. Perhaps because I was nervous, perhaps because I was thirsty, perhaps because I was a moron, I slurped down two big vodka tonics in about half an hour.
By the time we got to the restaurant, (which was one of the best in New Orleans), I was more than a little tipsy.
We were seated in an outdoor courtyard amongst some of New Orleans finest. Keith ordered a bottle of wine, two turtle soups (delicious!), and I got half a chicken.
We drank the first bottle of wine in a matter of minutes. Out came the second bottle. Now, I must explain that i have a serious issue eating in front of people, particularly boys I like. I will address this problem in a future post, but I would just as soon everyone believe that I exist by photosynthesis.
I have never had a problem drinking in front of anyone, particularly boys I like.
We are now on the third bottle of wine. Because I have this eating issue, I had had maybe two bites of soup and one bite of my chicken. I had probably at this point had 5 full glasses of wine and two vodka tonics. I was shitfaced.
All of a sudden, I remembered something.
I had my period. But because I was weird and hadn't yet figured out how to put in a tampon, and because of the nature of my outfit, I had decided to just fold a bunch of toilet-paper into my underwear. I never claimed to be a smart girl.
I stood up.
You know when you stand up and the whole world flips and spins and you go rushing into the vortex of hell? I took a deep breath, and then teetered around the courtyard, briefly stopping at a table occupied by an elderly couple to check in on them during their date. I then tried to sit on the gentleman's lap.
Keith watched the whole thing, and found this all hilarious. The waitstaff, however, did not. The manager collected me off of the geriatric patients lap and escorted me to the Ladies Room.
I proceeded to hurl my face off.
I then made the executive decision to spend the night in the toilet, and laid my head down on the seat and passed out.
The next thing I remember is Keith busting into the stall holding a glass of wine and a cigarette. I remember him setting down the glass of wine. Still smoking, he picked me up like a rag doll and stuck his finger down my throat.
I barfed some more.
Then i heard:
"Oh my God! Is your nose is bleeding?!"
Even as I wiped vomit off of my forehead, I realized what had happened.
The tissues I had stuffed in my panties had fallen out onto the floor, and Keith, bless his soul, thought my nose was bleeding.
Sick.
Post Script: I told him I loved him. He quoted True Romance in response. Thus kicked off a trend that would continue with all of my boyfriends.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Sunday, May 18, 2008
My First Date
My very first "proper" date was with the boy I bought tampons from at my local CVS. I'll skip over date number 1 which involved pouring rain, my date jumping out of my car to move a live telephone wire in the middle of the road---with his bare hands, my car catching on fire (completely unrelated to the telephone wire), and my parents picking me and my Jerry's kid date up at the Silver Diner.
I'll also skip over date number 2 which involved me
a) Driving into DC with a boy who wanted to be a country-music singer
b) Going to Planet Hollywood (a place where I ironically ended up working for 3 weeks in New Orleans...but that's a different story)
c) Getting lost in Anacostia
d) Being pulled over by a cop because I was going 65 in a 30 in a desperate attempt to get home before my curfew.
e) Having the cop hand me back my license after running it through telling me "I'm just going to give you a warning. Pretty sure you are going to be in enough trouble when you get home."
f) Not knowing what the cop meant until I got home (30 minutes past my curfew), where I discovered that my father had called the cops on me. Twice.
Which brings us to James the Drugstore boy.
I liked to go the drugstore a lot when I was 17. A) it was an excuse to drive B) I liked to eat Gobstoppers for breakfast and C) I was obsessed with exfoliate and pregnancy tests.
James was a very good-looking guy. He had really beautiful eyes. I had this whole romantic notion about him coming from "the wrong side of the tracks," working at a drugstore to save up money for college after which he would buy his family a new house in the "right part of town," and I would be by his side the whole time, being supportive and we would live happily ever after.
When he picked me up at my parents house in a Jaguar, I was thrown a bit.
I was thrown even further when we got to the movie theater (we were going to see Snake Eyes starring Nicholas Cage, also from the hit classics "Valley Girl," and "Face Off"), and he took 5 full minutes stroking his car, whispering in "her" rear-view mirrors that we would be back soon and not to worry.
During the movie, he held my hand and made little circles on my palm and that was the first time a guy had touched me that way and it made me feel real funny and squishy inside. I started to forget about the car incident.
Until we exited the movie and he dropped my hand and went running toward the Jag. (She had a name, but I don't remember it).
He didn't exactly throw himself on the car, because obviously that might have scratched the paint and hurt "her" feelings, however he sort of grinded up against the fender, settled in, and rested his cheek on the hood. He splayed his hands over "her" hood, and gave "her" a kiss. Now, I was only 17, and so this surprised me only because I had yet to see a man hump one of my stuffed animals. That would happen later when I was 22.
He tells me that his parents are out of town, so we should go back to his house to hang out for a bit. We're driving and we're driving. And I'm expecting that we are going to pull up to one of the low-income apartment complexes...until all of a sudden, I realize that we are in one of the richest parts of town. We pull up to the biggest house that I've ever seen.
Now, this is getting too long, and since I've had about 3 glasses of wine since I started this post I'll wrap it up. This is what happened:
a) We played a duet on his grand piano
b) He brought me home
c) He kissed me
d) If you can call it a kiss
e) He was biting my lip off
f) Seriously, he was gnawing on my lips.
g) I went inside my house thinking "oh, god, I haven't been missing a thing"
h) I find my father waiting in the kitchen with his arms folded and the phone book out.
i) I discover that my dad had not only called the cops on me again (thrice), but had also tried to call James the Drugstore boy's parents.
Luckily, they were on a cruise in the Bahamas.
I'll also skip over date number 2 which involved me
a) Driving into DC with a boy who wanted to be a country-music singer
b) Going to Planet Hollywood (a place where I ironically ended up working for 3 weeks in New Orleans...but that's a different story)
c) Getting lost in Anacostia
d) Being pulled over by a cop because I was going 65 in a 30 in a desperate attempt to get home before my curfew.
e) Having the cop hand me back my license after running it through telling me "I'm just going to give you a warning. Pretty sure you are going to be in enough trouble when you get home."
f) Not knowing what the cop meant until I got home (30 minutes past my curfew), where I discovered that my father had called the cops on me. Twice.
Which brings us to James the Drugstore boy.
I liked to go the drugstore a lot when I was 17. A) it was an excuse to drive B) I liked to eat Gobstoppers for breakfast and C) I was obsessed with exfoliate and pregnancy tests.
James was a very good-looking guy. He had really beautiful eyes. I had this whole romantic notion about him coming from "the wrong side of the tracks," working at a drugstore to save up money for college after which he would buy his family a new house in the "right part of town," and I would be by his side the whole time, being supportive and we would live happily ever after.
When he picked me up at my parents house in a Jaguar, I was thrown a bit.
I was thrown even further when we got to the movie theater (we were going to see Snake Eyes starring Nicholas Cage, also from the hit classics "Valley Girl," and "Face Off"), and he took 5 full minutes stroking his car, whispering in "her" rear-view mirrors that we would be back soon and not to worry.
During the movie, he held my hand and made little circles on my palm and that was the first time a guy had touched me that way and it made me feel real funny and squishy inside. I started to forget about the car incident.
Until we exited the movie and he dropped my hand and went running toward the Jag. (She had a name, but I don't remember it).
He didn't exactly throw himself on the car, because obviously that might have scratched the paint and hurt "her" feelings, however he sort of grinded up against the fender, settled in, and rested his cheek on the hood. He splayed his hands over "her" hood, and gave "her" a kiss. Now, I was only 17, and so this surprised me only because I had yet to see a man hump one of my stuffed animals. That would happen later when I was 22.
He tells me that his parents are out of town, so we should go back to his house to hang out for a bit. We're driving and we're driving. And I'm expecting that we are going to pull up to one of the low-income apartment complexes...until all of a sudden, I realize that we are in one of the richest parts of town. We pull up to the biggest house that I've ever seen.
Now, this is getting too long, and since I've had about 3 glasses of wine since I started this post I'll wrap it up. This is what happened:
a) We played a duet on his grand piano
b) He brought me home
c) He kissed me
d) If you can call it a kiss
e) He was biting my lip off
f) Seriously, he was gnawing on my lips.
g) I went inside my house thinking "oh, god, I haven't been missing a thing"
h) I find my father waiting in the kitchen with his arms folded and the phone book out.
i) I discover that my dad had not only called the cops on me again (thrice), but had also tried to call James the Drugstore boy's parents.
Luckily, they were on a cruise in the Bahamas.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Famous Persons Encounters
I generally have no interest in famous people. Living in New York I imagine I pass by one every now and then, but I'm more likely to notice dogshit than Tom Cruise walking down the street in loafers with 5 inch heels and an attractive male accessory. (This actually happened--I thought I saw someone who looked like Tom Cruise coming toward me and was about to make mention of it to my boyfriend at the time when i was suddenly distracted by dog crap in the shape of the Virgin Mary. My boyfriend later confirmed that it was, in fact, Tom Cruise).
When I do happen to encounter famous people, I have this automatic aversion to them. If I am in the same room as a famous person, I go out of my way to ignore him or her. If I am introduced to a famous person, I pretend I don't know who he or she is and make them repeat their name. I do this, I guess, to make a point that, you know "fuck you, you are famous, but I don't care," but I'm sure it comes across as "I'm not only deaf, but I'm also an asshole."
Like the time I met Matt Dillon. You may remember him from when he was molten deliciousness in the classic films "The Outsiders" and "Rumblefish" and "Singles."
Rio, 2005. I was there for New Years with my ex-boyfriend, we'll call him M. We were in a restaurant/bar having drinks with a group of his friends who happen to be well-known Brazilian artists. I always felt uncomfortable around them, I guess because we all felt like I was beneath them...so I liked to make things more comfortable for everyone by getting shithoused to the point where I called them pretentious douchebags without souls. Actually, come to think of it, maybe that's why they didn't like me. Ah, well. We'll call it a catch 22.
So there we were, drinking some colorful drink loaded with sugar and liquor at a long table. M and I were at the end of the table. There was an empty seat next to him and surprisingly one next to me. All of a sudden there was a big cheer that rippled across the table. I looked up to see a familiar, tan, bloated man, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and smoking a cigar, accompanied by a thin, much paler man. M kicked me under the table. "Is that Matt Dillon?" he whispered.
I looked again.
The tan, familiar man, who had just taken his place in the middle of the table, was most certainly the grown up, blown up version of the teen sensation who gave me my first wet dream...or the equivalent of a wet dream. I am aware that girls don't actually get wet dreams. Do they? Did I miss out on something? Shit. *Mental note: Ask girlfriends with normal sex lives if I was supposed to have a wetdream*
His companion took the empty seat next to me, unaware of my "untouchable" status. I forced myself not to look over at the middle of the table, and distracted myself by playing a drinking game with myself. The game was "How much can I drink before I puke?" I play this game a lot.
SIDEBAR: SOMEhow, I ended up thumb-wrestling Matt Dillon's companion (who M swears to this day was Ethan Hawk, but I'm FAIRLY certain he was not...but, then again, I was definitely winning my drinking game). I, of course, cheated and won.
We eventually left the bar as a big group and we were standing outside figuring out our next move. The group decided to split in two. M and I ended up in Matt Dillon's group. Matt Dillon turned to M, and says:
"I love your accent. You must be from Brooklyn."
M replied
"Yeah, born and raised. Yourself?"
"Westchester, around there."
Matt Dillon then stuck out his hand and says "Matt."
"M"
I'm standing there furious. Matt Dillon has not even looked my way, but is apparently hitting it off famously with M. Did M masturbate to the thought of Matt Dillon? I think NOT!!! (Well, maybe).
So, as they are in the middle of their love-fest, I, sort of like a deaf asshole, forcefully stick my hand out and blurt
"I'M COOKIEFACE. WHAT WAS YOUR NAME AGAIN?"
*tumbleweed rolls by*
M looks at me and rolls his eyes. Matt Dillon barely glances at me and then takes my hand and shakes it...WITHOUT repeating his name, of course, and then continues his fascinating conversation with M.
I awkwardly backed away. My eyes darted for my nearest escape, but I was in Rio and I spoke zero Portuguese and I wasn't fond of "walking alone in the dark through a foreign city known for its horribly violent crime."
Some highlights from later that night:
1) We tried to get into an exclusive club using Matt Dillon's "star power," however the club had no idea who he was.
2) I attempted the Samba for the first time and knocked over a table filled with semi full drinks with my hips.
3) I picked a fight with M because I thought Matt Dillon sucked and he didn't...obviously, because Matt Dillon LOVED his accent. Dumbass.
Stay tuned for "Famous Persons Encounters II: Cindy Lauper"
When I do happen to encounter famous people, I have this automatic aversion to them. If I am in the same room as a famous person, I go out of my way to ignore him or her. If I am introduced to a famous person, I pretend I don't know who he or she is and make them repeat their name. I do this, I guess, to make a point that, you know "fuck you, you are famous, but I don't care," but I'm sure it comes across as "I'm not only deaf, but I'm also an asshole."
Like the time I met Matt Dillon. You may remember him from when he was molten deliciousness in the classic films "The Outsiders" and "Rumblefish" and "Singles."
Rio, 2005. I was there for New Years with my ex-boyfriend, we'll call him M. We were in a restaurant/bar having drinks with a group of his friends who happen to be well-known Brazilian artists. I always felt uncomfortable around them, I guess because we all felt like I was beneath them...so I liked to make things more comfortable for everyone by getting shithoused to the point where I called them pretentious douchebags without souls. Actually, come to think of it, maybe that's why they didn't like me. Ah, well. We'll call it a catch 22.
So there we were, drinking some colorful drink loaded with sugar and liquor at a long table. M and I were at the end of the table. There was an empty seat next to him and surprisingly one next to me. All of a sudden there was a big cheer that rippled across the table. I looked up to see a familiar, tan, bloated man, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and smoking a cigar, accompanied by a thin, much paler man. M kicked me under the table. "Is that Matt Dillon?" he whispered.
I looked again.
The tan, familiar man, who had just taken his place in the middle of the table, was most certainly the grown up, blown up version of the teen sensation who gave me my first wet dream...or the equivalent of a wet dream. I am aware that girls don't actually get wet dreams. Do they? Did I miss out on something? Shit. *Mental note: Ask girlfriends with normal sex lives if I was supposed to have a wetdream*
His companion took the empty seat next to me, unaware of my "untouchable" status. I forced myself not to look over at the middle of the table, and distracted myself by playing a drinking game with myself. The game was "How much can I drink before I puke?" I play this game a lot.
SIDEBAR: SOMEhow, I ended up thumb-wrestling Matt Dillon's companion (who M swears to this day was Ethan Hawk, but I'm FAIRLY certain he was not...but, then again, I was definitely winning my drinking game). I, of course, cheated and won.
We eventually left the bar as a big group and we were standing outside figuring out our next move. The group decided to split in two. M and I ended up in Matt Dillon's group. Matt Dillon turned to M, and says:
"I love your accent. You must be from Brooklyn."
M replied
"Yeah, born and raised. Yourself?"
"Westchester, around there."
Matt Dillon then stuck out his hand and says "Matt."
"M"
I'm standing there furious. Matt Dillon has not even looked my way, but is apparently hitting it off famously with M. Did M masturbate to the thought of Matt Dillon? I think NOT!!! (Well, maybe).
So, as they are in the middle of their love-fest, I, sort of like a deaf asshole, forcefully stick my hand out and blurt
"I'M COOKIEFACE. WHAT WAS YOUR NAME AGAIN?"
*tumbleweed rolls by*
M looks at me and rolls his eyes. Matt Dillon barely glances at me and then takes my hand and shakes it...WITHOUT repeating his name, of course, and then continues his fascinating conversation with M.
I awkwardly backed away. My eyes darted for my nearest escape, but I was in Rio and I spoke zero Portuguese and I wasn't fond of "walking alone in the dark through a foreign city known for its horribly violent crime."
Some highlights from later that night:
1) We tried to get into an exclusive club using Matt Dillon's "star power," however the club had no idea who he was.
2) I attempted the Samba for the first time and knocked over a table filled with semi full drinks with my hips.
3) I picked a fight with M because I thought Matt Dillon sucked and he didn't...obviously, because Matt Dillon LOVED his accent. Dumbass.
Stay tuned for "Famous Persons Encounters II: Cindy Lauper"
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Would you Like to Take a Survey?
Perhaps this will explain some things to you
First Kiss:
Was with a pony-tailed gentleman of Arab descent in a club called The Hippodrome in London. I was 16. Later on, back at the hotel, I guess I felt dirty so I washed my face using shampoo which resulted in an enormous cystic-like growth on the rim of my upper lip. I still have a scar from where I popped it--three times. It just kept coming back.
Another thing that I will always remember from that night was my cousin telling me in a very authoritative voice that "As long as it hasn't been on the floor, you can use the toilet paper."
Words that have stayed with me to this day....
First Kiss:
Was with a pony-tailed gentleman of Arab descent in a club called The Hippodrome in London. I was 16. Later on, back at the hotel, I guess I felt dirty so I washed my face using shampoo which resulted in an enormous cystic-like growth on the rim of my upper lip. I still have a scar from where I popped it--three times. It just kept coming back.
Another thing that I will always remember from that night was my cousin telling me in a very authoritative voice that "As long as it hasn't been on the floor, you can use the toilet paper."
Words that have stayed with me to this day....
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.
*Flashback*
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)
"What?"
"lkajdfs"
"HELLO???"
"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*
WOW.
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.
However, I am fairly certain I will never hear from him again. Let's go to the tape.
*Flashback*
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)
"What?"
"lkajdfs"
"HELLO???"
"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*
WOW.
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 mate...is that he is not a cannibal. I do not want to be eaten by another human being. Maybe by a tiger, though.
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 mate...is 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!
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!!!
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.
“LET ME ASK YOU JUST ONE QUESTION!!!”
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?”
“WHY WOULD YOU EVER WANT TO LEAVE NEW YORK???!!!”
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.
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.
“LET ME ASK YOU JUST ONE QUESTION!!!”
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?”
“WHY WOULD YOU EVER WANT TO LEAVE NEW YORK???!!!”
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.
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