I used to go clubbing. And by "used to go," I mean that I went exactly three times. The first time, Kacy talked me into going to Greensboro with her to a mostly-black club because she was frustrated with her man-friend and needed some inappropriate dance therapy to recover. We didn't know prior to paying our way in that we were basically the only whit people there, and it wouldn't have mattered except our complete lack of rhythm felt like the focus of the entire building. But we decided that we were going to have fun, act like we didn't care about our macarena-style dancing, spend $4 for drinks, and dance with strange guys who were interested in us for our personality-enhancing cleavage.
They had a disco ball and played terrible music I didn't know, but it was okay because of the noisy friendly atmosphere and because I was hip-to-vagina with seventeen people at all times. Nobody noticed or cared that I couldn't dance, and I somehow wasn't claustrophobic even though I wasn't medicated. The last 2/5 of the light were spent dancing with one guy, who was inevitably enchanted by my tangled sweaty hair and smeared eyeliner.
When Kacy and I decided that our toes were too blistered to keep dancing, our eyes were too bloodshot to keep them open, and our throats had grown too raw to keep laughing and singing, we had to call it a night and head home. I bad farewell to my dance partner, who asked me for my number. Delighted and flattered, I gave it to him and floated home, thrilled with my exciting evening and new "romance." Because I'm only happy when I have a guy in my life.
In the following weeks, this fellow and I texted each other a lot. I found out his name was Mo (short for Mohammad. Don't judge him.) and he was from Africa. He found out I was from here and have a really boring life. I have no idea what we talked about, but he enjoyed telling me how pretty I was and discussing our different cultures. I enjoyed one of those topics.
Mo: It is so different here. In Africa, everyone is poor and works just to survive, not to go out to eat and dance and watch the movies.*
*That's not a typo. He really said things that way.
Me: Really? Gosh, that's interesting. I have boobies. And long hair. And sometimes, I wear bracelets.
Mo: Yes. I do like it in America, but some things confuse me still. What are the boobies?
Me: I haven't had sex in a year.
After a few of these in-depth conversations, we became so close that it seemed like a brilliant idea to go out on a date. And possibly get married. It sounded good to me because I get great pleasure from expensive Mexican food that other people pay for, so I let him talk me into it. We met at the mall so he wouldn't know where my house was, and rode to the restaurant awkwardly making small talk about the weather and how attractive I was. Out from under the disco lights, and through my well-rested non-bloodshot eyes, I realized not only was Mo wildly unattractive, he was old. Not creepy Hugh Hefner old, but nine years older than me. Which is 10-16 years older than most guys I get involved with.
He gazed at me in fascination as I gobbled down my cheesy chickeny rice at Mi Pueblo. Mesmerized by my chomping abilities and intriguing conversation, it was all he could to keep his hands off me. So he didn't. His greasy finger slithered down my arms, snaked around my wrist, and, my personal favorite, smeared across my face. It was like he was Helen Keller, if Helen Keller were a 29-year-old horny African man.
I was close to danger-texting Kacy so she could call me with a fake emergency and rescue me. But I really wanted to make the best of my evening out, so I stuck through the groping dinner fiasco in the teetering belief that attitude is 90% of the outcome. Bitchy Skeptical Cynic wasn't working out, so I tried on Bubbly Confident PartyGirl to see how that worked out for me. Turns out, Bubbly Confident PartyGirl makes rash decisions like agreeing to return to the nightclub where we met, driving 30 minutes out of our way, in my car, with a creepy greasy horny stranger-man driving. I don't allow BCPG to mingle anymore.
The ride tot he club was excruciating. I would've enjoyed it more if I'd been with Cujo and we both had explosive diarrhea. We nothing to talk about, but he didn't seem to realize that flaw in our chemistry. Mo, not Cujo. Cujo and I would have plenty to talk about.
Me: The speed limit is 35.
Mo: Yes, I am going to go 20 though, it is safer this way. I love to drive.
Me: Seriously? I hate driving. It's all frustrating and junk, and I get lost all the time.
Bitchy Skeptical Cynic was trying to come back a little bit.
Mo: I can drive and eat at the same time.
Me: That's... useful.
Mo: *Turns radio up* Oh this song could be about us. This is my favorite.
It was Kidd Rock's "All Summer Long." I still don't get it.
The club was jammin'. I paid $1 to keep my 6-inch stripper shoes safe in the lobby so I could get my toes flattened by pointy-heeled strangers. Mo kept my keys in his pocket for safekeeping, and tried to do the same with my phone. I wisely refused the latter so I could still danger-text if needed. It crossed my mind later that it would've been even wiser to just stay at home, eat froot loops, and fall asleep watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Mo guided me to a booth so he could continue rubbing my face and trying to kiss me. I ducked his enormous hungry lips for a while under the pretense of turning my head to enjoy the sights of drunken skanks dancing on poles and swinging. This went on so long that dancing actually seemed like a better option.
Moo seemed to have dancing confused with standing-up full-body massages. I was like, excuse me sir but can you please stop molesting me on the dance floor. And he was all, no, I'm going to put my hands in your pockets.
There aren't many tactful ways to tell a guy that you don't enjoy his slimy hands clogging up your pores when he has your car keys and you want to continue having a car. I liked having a car more than I liked having self-respect so I let him dance with me long enough to keep his feelings from being hurt. Then I exaggerated the pain in my feet so he'd pity me and drive me back to safe territory. Luckily Mo wasn't a bad guy, just a ridiculous, old, greasy guy. He drove me back to the lot where he'd left his car and told me how much fun he'd had.
Mo: I enjoyed being with you tonight and dancing with you. You dance very good.
Me: ...Right on. *Crosses arms and steps towards car, glancing around nervously*
Mo: I hope I will see you soon. You make me very happy. You will text me?
Me: I will, uh, probably text you. Yeah... oh man it's cold out here. Oh my gosh,, did you see that fire truck?! I wonder what's going on over there.
Mo: A fire probably. Like the fire burning in my heart for you.
Me: Oh God.
My dating life is pathetic.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Sunday, October 2, 2011
I could claw a bitch.
My friend Marie used to date this complete douchebag named Lenny. She was really into him because he has this charming way of clearing his throat and snorting at the same time, and he had eleven different pairs of carpenter jeans. What a catch! He was almost as excellent as my boyfriend at the time, who mooched money off me after buying $70 video games and didn't believe in brushing his teeth. But this particular blog is about her bad choices, not mind. You can judge my relationship history later, when I can do it justice by using an abundance of offensive adjectives and embarrassing anecdotes.
Marie put up with a lot of crap from Lenny in the time that they dated, and wasted her hottest teenage years on him. She could definitely have done better, but she was determined to make it work with this moron because of how bright their future seemed to be together or something senseless like that. They broke up at least 17 times, but they got back together 16 times because he was so irresistible. The 17th time, she found out he was sexting a 12-year-old slut while on Christmas vacation with Marie's family. Did I mention he was a dumbass? He was a dumbass.
So while they were sitting right next to each other, enjoying Christmasy family time and being above the legal age of adulthood, Marie glanced at Lenny's phone and voiced her curiosity about the child pornography presented on the screen. He had his phone stealthily tilted slightly away from her, overlooking her secret ability to lean forward.
Marie: Excuse me, but who the hell are you getting boob pictures from on Christmas?
Lenny: Nobody! That was a dog my friend is trying to sell me, you silly.
Marie: ....................
Lenny: Okay. It was some girl who's obsessed with me; I met her when I was hanging around the middle school in my trenchcoat. I'm not sure how she got my number, I sure wish she'd leave me alone.
Marie: ...................
Lenny: She's always harassing me with pictures of her naked body. Like I want to see that! I'd rather see my cousin naked. But really.
Marie: ...........
Lenny: ...What?! I almost never send her pictures back!
So she left him alone with his prepubescent nudie pictures to call me and ridicule him for an hour and a half. We picked apart every obnoxious or stupid thing he had done in the past four years of their relationship and blew them all out proportion to vent our rage at him. I was merciless in my critique of his personality, hoping that the 17th time of breaking up would be the charm. I know that wasn't the best way to handle it, but he was always killing our fun with his moody presence and his bowl cut.
A few weeks after The Christmas Boob Incident of 2009, they arranged to meet at his house and give each other their stuff back so they could move on with their lives and forget about each other's existence. Her sister Kelly and I went along with Marie for moral support and because we both wanted to kick Lenny in the nads.
He had been going on about how he still loved Marie and would do anything to get her back, and we all knew it because he would say so on Facebook at least three times a week. Incessant calls, texts, and Facebook posts might scream "I'm sorry" in some people's books, but in the case of Lenny it was just another example of his scary obsessiveness.
We showed up at his house that evening to find a strange car parked in the driveway. A girl's car, judging by the Playboy Bunny bumper sticker and flip-flop shaped air freshener. Marie went and knocked on the door while Kelly and I waited apprehensively outside. We saw Lenny and some ugly girl we'll call Trashley look out the window, spot Marie's car, and pull down the blinds. Lenny answered the door about ten minutes later, exclaiming through the dip in his lip, "Oh! I didn't know anybody was here!" Kelly and I rolled our eyes at each other, leaning against the car and waiting, trying to look nonchalant so none of the ghetto people would want to mess with us. A truck pulled up with two girls and two guys in it, and Trashley lumbered out of the house to greet them and fill them in on what was goin' awn over yonder. These hicks really fit in with their troubled-inner-city-youth surroundings.
They bumbled loudly about Lenny's bitch of an ex-girlfriend, how they could take Kelly and me in a fight, and how Trashley shouldn't leave "her man" alone with his ex. Kelly glowered and cracked her knuckles menacingly. I glanced nervously from her, to them, to the door where I wished Marie would hurry up and appear. After listening to the constant haze of hillbilly-style ridicule for so long that I couldn't take it anymore, we thought we should go inside and at least check on the situation. Because we didn't want to get in a fight in the street of the ghetto at night for some reason.
The scene in the kitchen was one of recently resolved tension. Marie assured us that Trashley wasn't a girl he was seeing, just a friend of his cousin. Lenny nodded vigorously, eager to convince everyone of his innocence and uninterrupted devotion to Marie. Since the story on the streets was quite different, I raised my eyebrows skeptically at poor, hopeful, optimistic, gullible Marie and hated Lenny for deceiving her like that. I decided to call him out on being the worst person ever created; it was a long time coming, I wanted it to be dramatic, and I might not get another chance, so as I stood up from my bar stool with murder in my eyes, I collected my thoughts to counteract his story as eloquently and maturely as I could.
Me: What the FUCK, Lenny?!
Kelly: Seriously dude, we just heard --
Me: Your cousin's friend? Oh that's about as likely as--
Kelly: --called you her "MAN," what's that about if--
Me: --don't know what's wrong with, are you HIGH or just --
Kelly: --ought to kick your--
These broken accusations went on for a while as Lenny stared, mouth agape, into his defeat. He slumped further and further down with each damning piece of evidence he was forced to face. Marie looked at him in disgust so great that we all threw up in our mouths a little. She told him he deserved less than that whale girl, that he was a lying sack of shit, and that she was glad to be rid of him. Then we stood in silence, gathering spit to sling in his face then deciding not to, listening to the two couples and Trashley continue to laugh and joyful badmouth us in the living room.
We drove home, screaming our hearts out to angsty teenage songs to express our bitter rage towards all lying cheating men-scum. It was the end of an era... we weren't getting pushed around by men anymore, because Alanis Morissette and Pink told us so.
Marie put up with a lot of crap from Lenny in the time that they dated, and wasted her hottest teenage years on him. She could definitely have done better, but she was determined to make it work with this moron because of how bright their future seemed to be together or something senseless like that. They broke up at least 17 times, but they got back together 16 times because he was so irresistible. The 17th time, she found out he was sexting a 12-year-old slut while on Christmas vacation with Marie's family. Did I mention he was a dumbass? He was a dumbass.
So while they were sitting right next to each other, enjoying Christmasy family time and being above the legal age of adulthood, Marie glanced at Lenny's phone and voiced her curiosity about the child pornography presented on the screen. He had his phone stealthily tilted slightly away from her, overlooking her secret ability to lean forward.
Marie: Excuse me, but who the hell are you getting boob pictures from on Christmas?
Lenny: Nobody! That was a dog my friend is trying to sell me, you silly.
Marie: ....................
Lenny: Okay. It was some girl who's obsessed with me; I met her when I was hanging around the middle school in my trenchcoat. I'm not sure how she got my number, I sure wish she'd leave me alone.
Marie: ...................
Lenny: She's always harassing me with pictures of her naked body. Like I want to see that! I'd rather see my cousin naked. But really.
Marie: ...........
Lenny: ...What?! I almost never send her pictures back!
So she left him alone with his prepubescent nudie pictures to call me and ridicule him for an hour and a half. We picked apart every obnoxious or stupid thing he had done in the past four years of their relationship and blew them all out proportion to vent our rage at him. I was merciless in my critique of his personality, hoping that the 17th time of breaking up would be the charm. I know that wasn't the best way to handle it, but he was always killing our fun with his moody presence and his bowl cut.
A few weeks after The Christmas Boob Incident of 2009, they arranged to meet at his house and give each other their stuff back so they could move on with their lives and forget about each other's existence. Her sister Kelly and I went along with Marie for moral support and because we both wanted to kick Lenny in the nads.
He had been going on about how he still loved Marie and would do anything to get her back, and we all knew it because he would say so on Facebook at least three times a week. Incessant calls, texts, and Facebook posts might scream "I'm sorry" in some people's books, but in the case of Lenny it was just another example of his scary obsessiveness.
We showed up at his house that evening to find a strange car parked in the driveway. A girl's car, judging by the Playboy Bunny bumper sticker and flip-flop shaped air freshener. Marie went and knocked on the door while Kelly and I waited apprehensively outside. We saw Lenny and some ugly girl we'll call Trashley look out the window, spot Marie's car, and pull down the blinds. Lenny answered the door about ten minutes later, exclaiming through the dip in his lip, "Oh! I didn't know anybody was here!" Kelly and I rolled our eyes at each other, leaning against the car and waiting, trying to look nonchalant so none of the ghetto people would want to mess with us. A truck pulled up with two girls and two guys in it, and Trashley lumbered out of the house to greet them and fill them in on what was goin' awn over yonder. These hicks really fit in with their troubled-inner-city-youth surroundings.
They bumbled loudly about Lenny's bitch of an ex-girlfriend, how they could take Kelly and me in a fight, and how Trashley shouldn't leave "her man" alone with his ex. Kelly glowered and cracked her knuckles menacingly. I glanced nervously from her, to them, to the door where I wished Marie would hurry up and appear. After listening to the constant haze of hillbilly-style ridicule for so long that I couldn't take it anymore, we thought we should go inside and at least check on the situation. Because we didn't want to get in a fight in the street of the ghetto at night for some reason.
The scene in the kitchen was one of recently resolved tension. Marie assured us that Trashley wasn't a girl he was seeing, just a friend of his cousin. Lenny nodded vigorously, eager to convince everyone of his innocence and uninterrupted devotion to Marie. Since the story on the streets was quite different, I raised my eyebrows skeptically at poor, hopeful, optimistic, gullible Marie and hated Lenny for deceiving her like that. I decided to call him out on being the worst person ever created; it was a long time coming, I wanted it to be dramatic, and I might not get another chance, so as I stood up from my bar stool with murder in my eyes, I collected my thoughts to counteract his story as eloquently and maturely as I could.
Me: What the FUCK, Lenny?!
Kelly: Seriously dude, we just heard --
Me: Your cousin's friend? Oh that's about as likely as--
Kelly: --called you her "MAN," what's that about if--
Me: --don't know what's wrong with, are you HIGH or just --
Kelly: --ought to kick your--
These broken accusations went on for a while as Lenny stared, mouth agape, into his defeat. He slumped further and further down with each damning piece of evidence he was forced to face. Marie looked at him in disgust so great that we all threw up in our mouths a little. She told him he deserved less than that whale girl, that he was a lying sack of shit, and that she was glad to be rid of him. Then we stood in silence, gathering spit to sling in his face then deciding not to, listening to the two couples and Trashley continue to laugh and joyful badmouth us in the living room.
We drove home, screaming our hearts out to angsty teenage songs to express our bitter rage towards all lying cheating men-scum. It was the end of an era... we weren't getting pushed around by men anymore, because Alanis Morissette and Pink told us so.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Welcome Home
Holy Toledo, I am terrible at updating my blog when I don't have Internet access. Luckily for you guys, I am hijacking my mom's computer long enough to type up this blog that I've had written down in my notebook for 3 1/2 weeks.
My best friend/assumed lesbian lover and I moved out of our parents' houses (finally) into the most beautiful old house Davidson County has to offer. That doesn't sound very impressive, but it is.
It came complete with washer and dryer, refrigerator, attic full of dead bodies and shattered dreams, and stove. We moved our endless boxes of picture frames and squiggly candle holders joyfully over the course of five days, letting everyone else haul things like our beds and granite furniture.
The basement is a cross between Buffalo Bill's lair and the end scene of the Blair Witch Project. We avoid it and pretend the doors leading to it are just weird portions of the wall with locks on it. A common, uncreepy architectural error.
There is one miniscule bedroom and one large bedroom, so we decided it would be fairest to share the giant room and have a slumber party every night. This will also help keep up our lesbian appearance, which endears us to our lesbian landladies. Kacy's boyfriend doesn't help with this facade, so we say he's her brother to stay on their good side.
Our perfect decorating skills enabled us to mix and match everything we've gotten for the house since we first started this plan two years ago. Not everybody can rock a green stove and yellow and brown linoleum, but not everybody is as clever and sexy as us.
Every single person who's seen the house has exclaimed, "Wow, that's pretty, can I come sit on your porch?! Ha, ha." and I'm getting pretty tired of pretending that it's a cute thing to say. I'm going to start training everyone not to say it by kicking them in the shins each time until they learn how unhilarious and unoriginal they are. Also it's totally not okay to not even like me or be nice to me but expect me to laugh at your stupid "jokes" and allow you to make use of my porch swing.
We've been having the most fun of our lives washing dishes, doing laundry, sweeping, sitting on the porch, and organizing things. I announced our first piece of trash in our kitchen trash can, my first dirty laundry, our first load of laundry, my first shower, the first movie we watched (Hitch), first booger picked (Kevin), first poop (Brooke), and first (and last) trip to the basement, until everyone has started to ignore the things that I say even more than usual.
Moving all of our clothes has been the most challenging part, because we own approximately the entire mall's worth of clothes. It was torture folding, hanging up, seeing if things fit me... it was like trying on clothes at the store except without the claustrophobia and when something's too small I die a little bit on the inside instead of trade it out for a larger size.
I moved all of my movies into the TVcabinet, giving prominent placing to such classics as Night at the Roxbury and Mighty Morphin Power Rangers: The Movie. When we're not busy swinging on the porch, rearranging decorations, and telling people to admire our house, we rot our brains out with ridiculous movies and marathons of America's Next Top Model.
This is my blog and I have a right to gloat on it if I want to, because I so rarely have things to gloat about. So I would like to tell everyone that my house is the most rockinest home I've ever seen, and that includes the Biltmore House. No exaggeration. Come see it if you don't believe me, and bring presents.
My best friend/assumed lesbian lover and I moved out of our parents' houses (finally) into the most beautiful old house Davidson County has to offer. That doesn't sound very impressive, but it is.
It came complete with washer and dryer, refrigerator, attic full of dead bodies and shattered dreams, and stove. We moved our endless boxes of picture frames and squiggly candle holders joyfully over the course of five days, letting everyone else haul things like our beds and granite furniture.
The basement is a cross between Buffalo Bill's lair and the end scene of the Blair Witch Project. We avoid it and pretend the doors leading to it are just weird portions of the wall with locks on it. A common, uncreepy architectural error.
There is one miniscule bedroom and one large bedroom, so we decided it would be fairest to share the giant room and have a slumber party every night. This will also help keep up our lesbian appearance, which endears us to our lesbian landladies. Kacy's boyfriend doesn't help with this facade, so we say he's her brother to stay on their good side.
Our perfect decorating skills enabled us to mix and match everything we've gotten for the house since we first started this plan two years ago. Not everybody can rock a green stove and yellow and brown linoleum, but not everybody is as clever and sexy as us.
Every single person who's seen the house has exclaimed, "Wow, that's pretty, can I come sit on your porch?! Ha, ha." and I'm getting pretty tired of pretending that it's a cute thing to say. I'm going to start training everyone not to say it by kicking them in the shins each time until they learn how unhilarious and unoriginal they are. Also it's totally not okay to not even like me or be nice to me but expect me to laugh at your stupid "jokes" and allow you to make use of my porch swing.
We've been having the most fun of our lives washing dishes, doing laundry, sweeping, sitting on the porch, and organizing things. I announced our first piece of trash in our kitchen trash can, my first dirty laundry, our first load of laundry, my first shower, the first movie we watched (Hitch), first booger picked (Kevin), first poop (Brooke), and first (and last) trip to the basement, until everyone has started to ignore the things that I say even more than usual.
Moving all of our clothes has been the most challenging part, because we own approximately the entire mall's worth of clothes. It was torture folding, hanging up, seeing if things fit me... it was like trying on clothes at the store except without the claustrophobia and when something's too small I die a little bit on the inside instead of trade it out for a larger size.
I moved all of my movies into the TVcabinet, giving prominent placing to such classics as Night at the Roxbury and Mighty Morphin Power Rangers: The Movie. When we're not busy swinging on the porch, rearranging decorations, and telling people to admire our house, we rot our brains out with ridiculous movies and marathons of America's Next Top Model.
This is my blog and I have a right to gloat on it if I want to, because I so rarely have things to gloat about. So I would like to tell everyone that my house is the most rockinest home I've ever seen, and that includes the Biltmore House. No exaggeration. Come see it if you don't believe me, and bring presents.
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