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Archive for November, 2009

Me (texting): Boy doesn’t know what poo dollar is: questionable. girl explains boy poo dolla and he doesn’t think it is hilarious: dealbreaker.  Boy says he’s gonna make me food and disappears from life: hurts my feelings.

And that’s how it ended (actually no, that’s a lie, it ended when he didn’t make me food as promised). But that’s what caused how I ended up texting a guy I call Tuna in my slutty sailor uniform (p.s. don’t call Marines sailors, ok? They like really don’t like that. I told Grandpa, ex-Marine, I was going to be him for Halloween this year. His response, “oh, you’re going to be an ugly old man?” “no gramps, I am going to be a sailor” and click – him hanging up on me) in the corner of the basement of the hottest Halloween party in town feeling rejected and confused.

It all started so well.

Have you heard about the theory that people are attracted to others that look like themselves?  Human development professor at Madison supports it (later she also says people look like their dogs… but that is beside the point). Tuna, like me, had brown hair and blue eyes which I must admit I find a tasty combo (yes, if you were wondering, I am also attracted to very modest people).  Irish Deadhorse also had the dark hair light eyes combo… but that’s another story.

He was a buffet drinker, like me. And no, I am not referring to my remarkable ability to polish off multiple o-bombs, irish carbombs, beerbongs, and vodka sodas in a day’s work. I’m talking a normal brunch w/ a bloody mary, diet coke, water, and maybe a coffee to boot.  Someone that appreciated the fact that having 4 drinks at once was better than 1 or 2, not peeved that my beverages were overtaking the table.

On a related Beverage note, I met Tuna when I was still w/ Beverage (whatever that means – since we were never fully together??) We bantered over email over who would win at catchphrase, shuffle board, movie trivia, and winking contests (ok, I’ll admit it – I am a HORRID winker. It’s not something I am proud of.   I have major wink envy over people that can pull off a sexy nonchalant wink. I like to have wink contests w/ my girlfriends over cocktails but to be honest I think my wink is just creepy and you probably wouldn’t even register it as a wink and I probably shouldn’t do it but I do. Cus I just think it’s kinda cool.) and here’s a cyber wink out at ya ;). I digress…  We fought over whether it was pop or soda (clearly pop) whether Chicago style pizza or margherita pizza took the cake (being a Chicago native and majority Italian I won those battles easily, plus, guys should never email phrases like “fresh basil and light sauce”, it’s just not becoming).

And then I told Beverage I was done sleeping w/ him (spoiler alert: I wasn’t. but I am now. Really) and went on to go out w the boy J who I reluctantly/stupidly got into his car without knowing him (ok – for the record I made Tim the door guy come out w me to look at his car/face in the event things turned out bad. Apparently Tim has the handshake of a wet fish, which was unfortunate. Pity that Ralph the other late night door guy/cop w/ gun/Mike Tyson look alike wasn’t working).  A couple minutes into said car ride I learned he had unregistered guns in it and emailed me post-dinner “can’t wait to see you again” w/ picture of his rifle. It didn’t work out.  But I still got to tell my father I got in the car on a blind date w/ some guy who had unregistered guns, which pretty much made it worth it.  Still hear from J, usually because I accidently blackberry message him from time to time since he has the same name as my brother. 

Tuna and I agree to go out for a “binner” (or is it dunch?) because it’s it’s COLLEGES homecoming game.  Pre date I warn him I might be dressed a bit out there and to that point does he have any collateral in my collegiate colors.  He brings me arm bands and face paint and surprises me w his favorite pizza place because I complain that there is no good pizza here.  Points for thoughtfulness and extra points for hotness (ok – I mighta had beer goggles when I first met him). As I watch football and look at him he seems to bear a resemblance to sportscaster/ex Bachelor star Jesse Palmer. Except he doesn’t have that expression like he has no idea where he is like Jesse.

I initiate a beer off because I am competitive lil fer and dates always get more fun once you have your buzz on. A beer I recall as Skullf+cker wins, although I am certain that is not the real name of the beer but a very, very inappropriate sexual act. Urban dictionary it, I dare you, although you might really, really not like what you see.

We are having so much fun that he ends up wearing my collegiate hat and I draw the mascot on his cheek and he comes to watch the game w/ me.  And when he puts on the hat he looks like another Jesse, Desperate Housewives start Jesse Metcalffe. Good things happen there: Thelma’s boyfriend Rabbit and Beverage’s best friend is there and I learn that he is a pot stirrer: he texts Beverage that he is hanging out w/ me and my new man. Mega score as Beverage gets jealous.

But it’s not just that, I am genuinely having a good time, Tuna is fun, funny, smart, he cheers for my team, buys rounds of beer tubes, touches my back dimples and we stand really, really close to eachother and breathe into each other’s mouth pulling away just before kissing. Which as I type sounds really, really nasty, but seemed really, really hot.

Shit – I am hammered. And for his better judgment he says he has to go and against my better judgment I say “no, no, you should come home w/ ME” while Thelma reminds me to play it cool and not go home w/ him. Instead, I play it very very uncool.

But it’s good, and I’m glad he doesn’t come home w/ me even though he texts me he wanted to and he didn’t want to go, but it’s ok. I go home w/ Thelma and we have a dance party on the couch rocking out to Cher and Black Eyed Pees screaming and jumping on the couch.  And I forgot about Beverage, and am thinking about kisses yet to be had, my team won today, and I am dancing on furniture.  I’m happy.

To be cont’d….

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I wake up wearing my bikini and jewelry and I know that it is my mother who has been dead for six years and Beverage, the boy who has half hazardless dated me for 4 months that is to blame.

It’s always a bad day. And I fight w the urge to not get out of bed to pull the covers over my head and cry and be in pain. Or take a vicodin or an ambien, to numb away the pain of missing you to hush the regret and the remorse of not being with you.

This year I gained perspective the day before your anniversary. I looked at you and I remembered that you got your heart broken. And not just one heartbreak, but repeatedly broke. Again and again as you waited for someone to be someone they just couldn’t be. Or wouldn’t. I mean, really, what incentive did he have to be better.

And then I thought of Beverage, who per his actions seemed 100% into me. But who had told me he didn’t want to be in a relationship w me. Who was in a cloud like trance, oblivious that he had made me cry, made me question myself, that I was a girl and we don’t just casually date and screw w/o wanting more. And I thought of mom, and knew that life was much too short to have someone break your heart over again. Actions might speak louder than words, but when someone tells you that they don’t want to be in relationship w/ you, I think those words are worth listening to. And so I wrote.

Dear Beverage, I’m not happy with things the way they are. If you want me in your life you need to start acting like it or else I need to move on. I’m starting to feel like a hooker sleeping with someone when we are not in a committed relationship. I don’t want to be w something that is ok w not seeing me for a week. It’s been 4 months. I have no idea how you feel about me. I don’t want to be hurt. If you don’t know if you want to be w me that’s a pretty good indication you don’t.

So….. I need you to figure out whether you want to be my friend or something more. I can’t keep giving my time and frigging awesome body (including amazing sex and world class blow jobs) to some who can’t figure out whether they want to be in a relationship w me.

And then send. And then silence and peace and the anxiety melting through me as I recovered my sense of control. And then the phone rang, and Beverage didn’t want to be in a relationship. And he thought he had been upfront w me, although the all expenses paid trip to Santa Monica and company vacations he’d bring me on would suggest otherwise. And what kind of nonboyfriend asks for your input on the grocery list? Or sends you pictures of the food they cook? Or kisses your forehead and holds you like they never want you to let go?

But I think sometimes your words can be more powerful than such actions and I want a boy who is proud to call me his boyfriend and can’t help himself from being in a relationship w me and can’t keep the words “I love you” from coming out of his mouth. And so I don’t fight it like I might have 6 years ago (ala I KNOW YOU LOVE ME, you’re going to regret this blah blah) and I say ok, ok, and ok and goodbye.

So we celebrate dead mommy and we send her our love and say silent prayers that her true love was answered in another life and say silent promises/pleads to ourselves in our quietest voices in our head that we will find the love in this life and not settle for anything less. And we hold our breath.

We drink too many saketinis and don’t eat enough sushi. A new boy comes to meet me but he is not my Beverage and I ask him can we please share a cab home but him pay for it and not come with us. And Thelma and I come home, but I tell her we are not done, and we pour glasses of wine and scream at the ceiling to Mom that we love her, and miss her, to take care of us…. And in retrospect I don’t know that that’s the type of tribute that she’d want. But we toast her the only way we can and we clink our glasses together and I don’t remember it but we toast mom and when I wake up there is wine on the white couch, wine on Thelma’s sweatpants and wine on the floor. And there I am in my bikini and jewelry and the timing is shit and I remember that when it rains it pours but how the fuck did I end up underwater?

And when I come out I know it’s ok to be down – that within these raw moments I am able to appreciate the contrasting state and bliss of being up again. And I can taste the air outside the water and I realize I so appreciate the oxygen. And today you know that’s good enough for me, to just be here, feeling, and breathing in and out.

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So I’m going through a dry patch post boyfriend.  Ever since I started having sex when I was 15 the longest I had gone w/o it was 2 months (note: on the spectrum I’d consider myself more “serial monogamist” than “slut” – however, I suppose there’s a lot of grey in between).

So when Spartan told me that she had the perfect guy for me my first thought was SLUMP BUSTER.  Spartan’s description of Tad: 30, amazing condo (good – since becoming a homeowner, I’d noticed the boys grow uninterested when learning about my latest and greatest accomplishment of buying a condo – of which I am, rightfully, quite proud of and please go fuck yourself if you find that intimidating) hot lawyer (apparently he looks like a Chase Crawford/Zach Affron mix).  He liked to party, loved sports and took his career seriously.  Serious soul mate potential.  Yes, it was a bit concerning when Spartan told me he cheated on his ex-girlfriend all the time… (wait, why was she thinking he was the perfect guy for me again?) but what guy doesn’t have flaws?

Ok, so Spart did not lie, Tad could be on the cover of Teen Beat or Seventeen.  But he has that cocky vibe that lights my sass on fire and I don’t give him the time of day.

I am the kind of girl that gets very horny after a couple drinks… and then a few drinks later forgets all about sex and just wants to dance.  I had crossed that hump. Sparty and I went off to Denny’s – the bar that is closest to our apartment (it is critical to go to a bar that you can log roll/crawl home from if the need arises).

It’s a little hazy how it happened but Sparty and I are on the stage dancing with tambourines and singing “I want you to want me” (it was 9 PM and somebody had to get the dance party going).  As to our singing abilities – well, we don’t have any.  What we lacked in tone we made up in with our sexy moves. 

While I like to imagine Tad was watching because he was impressed w/ our said moves, I am pretty sure he was waiting for me to get drunk enough to succumb to his beauty (and my dry spell) and go home w/ him.

Spartan took off and I was left having a dance party by myself. When all of a sudden Tad jumps up, grabs my arm and begins to swing me around.

“mother fuckin ow Tad!!”  I say as he “spins” me. I think I just dislocated my shoulder a little bit.  Thankfully next swing around all seems well again…. It could have just been the obscene amount of vodka I have consumed that makes me feel that way.  We actually dance pretty well together.

Fuck we are tumbling under a table.  Lucky for bi-standers I am wearing a dress.  A few girls give me a look of disgust.  Do they not realize they’d be so much cooler if they’d just smile and laugh – maybe help me up? And then maybe we’d be friends and they could dance alongside me and oh by the way you would look a lot cooler if you were friends with the crazy tambourine playing, ill singing, swing dancing chick under the bar table?

It’s time to go as evidenced by the dirty looks from the door guys and the fact that I am under a table, dress up, completely ham-boned and need to be up in the office tomorrow morning.  We leave and have the best make out session I have had in sometime. I am desperate for him to do me but that’s so not ladylike on “date 1” (and calling it a date might just be a stretch – although under Kat’s revised criteria this qualifies as one… and who am I to tell Kat that a random Thursday shack is not dating?  There were drinks and dancing involved after all).

And the hot semi-naked man I awoke to in the morning. Lucky for me, the contractors had finally installed our shower/tub the day before.  Cus Tad had to go back to court.  I wonder if the jury noticed he wore the same clothes 2 days in a row. I sat in my post make-out glow when I hear a deep stern voice that does not resemble 5’2” sweet bubbly Heidi: ROOMATE, A WORD, PLEASE.”

Oh shit.  I quickly look in the kitchen for evidence that I was loud – cabinet doors open, alcohol out, oven on, perhaps a pizza strewn somewhere, music on. Nothing.

“WHO THE FUCK WAS IN MY BED LAST NIGHT?”  huh? How the f was I supposed to know? Heidi had a boyfriend, Bonernose, but she hadn’t been the most faithful as of late.  And Heidi wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stay in one person’s bed.

Apparently Tad had woken up to go the bathroom and stumbled back into the bedroom… the wrong bedroom.   Heidi is blind without contacts and apparently an unidentifiable naked stranger hopped in bed and began spooning her(did I just get a little jealous that Tad and Heidi fake cuddled? So inappropriate). “So I am laying there and my heart is beating so hard and all I can think about is oh my god a construction worker used his key on our apartment and he is going to rape me.”

They spooned for 30 second before Tad noticed and casually said “Woops, wrong bedroom”.

While the slump has not been busted, strides have been made forward and there is a boy out there that has christened our shower, and cuddled in both of our beds and all in the past 6 hours. Think of what he could do w/ more time?  Hope has been restored and I am confident that I will, in fact, get laid again. And as a side bar, may I just add that the $900 upgrade to the glass shower doors was sooo money well spent.

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