I am a single, divorced cat owner. A post about my cat was inevitable. I named her Princess Dot (after the baby ant from A Bug's Life. A Disney character, of course), but little did I know that when I got her at 6 weeks she would fully live up to her name one day. That day has come.
I blame myself, really. I think it's all the organic food I feed her. She's become so high and mighty! Sure, she'll lick the pancake batter out of an unsupervised bowl. A stick of butter? She'll make it her bitch. But swat down a nice juicy fly (with the nearest towel, while wincing, swearing and gagging*) and she turns up her nose like she didn't just lick the grease off a pan left out on the stove for too long. Oh, she'll steal a piece of chicken right off your plate, that little trash can kitty.
So line up, single men! You've found what you were looking for! A foul mouthed, mildly offensive, mostly inappropriate, high maintenance cat owner. I mean the cat is high maintenance, not me. Clearly, or I wouldn't leave so many things on the counter for that little asshole to lick and then throw up later. Oh yeah, she's a bulimic little bitch, too!
The end.
(This post was not proof read, Deal with it.)
*I hate bugs. All bugs. Especially spiders. Those evil little bastards, they can smell fear.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Annoying Encounters: 3
Last night I went to Saddle Rack with a friend of mine. It's a really fun place, especially if you have a weakness for all things cowboy and country. Which I do. Which is why it sucks when all things not cowboy or country hit on me.
This was my favorite exchange of the evening:
Manchild: What's your name?
Me: Trixie
Manchild: What?
Me: Trixie, ya know, like the cereal Trix? But Trixie.
Manchild: I'm... (I don't remember his name because I wasn't listening because he was 11)
He introduces himself to my friend and then starts to ask another question. Probably where we were from because that seemed to be the standard question of the evening.
Me: (interrupting) I'm sorry, I was just in the middle of talking with my friend. (Go back to talking with my friend)
A few moments later:
Manchild: Can I get your number?
Me: No, I'm sorry, that's not a good idea. I'm a lot older than you.
Manchild: Does age really matter?
Me: It does when you're my age.
Manchild: So it doesn't matter than I'm attracted to you?
Me: No.
Manchild (storms off like a manchild)
Poor, sweet little goober. I mean, okay, I do look a few years younger than I am, but not 10! Why are the manchildren hitting on me? Seriously? You can do better than that, universe! Work it out!
This was my favorite exchange of the evening:
Manchild: What's your name?
Me: Trixie
Manchild: What?
Me: Trixie, ya know, like the cereal Trix? But Trixie.
Manchild: I'm... (I don't remember his name because I wasn't listening because he was 11)
He introduces himself to my friend and then starts to ask another question. Probably where we were from because that seemed to be the standard question of the evening.
Me: (interrupting) I'm sorry, I was just in the middle of talking with my friend. (Go back to talking with my friend)
A few moments later:
Manchild: Can I get your number?
Me: No, I'm sorry, that's not a good idea. I'm a lot older than you.
Manchild: Does age really matter?
Me: It does when you're my age.
Manchild: So it doesn't matter than I'm attracted to you?
Me: No.
Manchild (storms off like a manchild)
Poor, sweet little goober. I mean, okay, I do look a few years younger than I am, but not 10! Why are the manchildren hitting on me? Seriously? You can do better than that, universe! Work it out!
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Walking penises
I want to meet a man I don't want to sleep with.
Not because I'm not attracted to him, but because I am. Because, when I look at him, I don't just see a walking penis. Because the first thing in my head is, "This guy is a cool human," instead of, "Hmm, would I bang this guy?"
Sometimes I feel like a dude. Only looking for a lay because looking for actual potential is scary in that it requires a great amount of vulnerability and opens the door for a vast amount of heartbreak. It's much easier just to have the sex. You know what you're in for and expectations stay low. And simple. And heartbreak free.
With low expectations one doesn't picture holding hands* and going on surprisingly romantic dates. With low expectations one doesn't start hyphenating their last freakin' name and imagine taking freakin' mini breaks together. With low expectations things can only get better, right? In theory, yes. In the life of Jen? Not so much.
So I'm not sure I want my expectations to stay low, scary as it is to admit. I don't know, maybe I'm growing out of promiscuity like one grows out of their clothes. So, I feel like I have two choices. I can keep my expectations low, simple and heartbreak free with the life of a cat-lady spinster looming in my future; or I can remember that I have impossibly high expectations. And my impossibly high expectations will either lead me to the greatest love of all (thank you, Whitney Houston) or devastating heartbreak with the life of a cat-lady spinster looming in my future.
Considering cat-lady spinsterhood is a possible outcome either way, I might as well aim high. This doesn't mean that I don't have anymore old sexcapades to share. It just means that (hopefully) I won't have any new ones. Goodbye to walking penises! Hello to men I don't want to have sex with! Ya know, at first. I'm still a woman for cryin' out loud.
*Holding hands, in my opinion, is one of the most beautifully intimate gestures. I know it doesn't seem so. But when you think about it, when do we hold someone's hand? When we're in a crowd. When we cross the street. When we're running away from a bad guy in a movie. It's a way to keep someone close. It's a gesture that implies if I let you go, I might lose you. And then the bad guy will get you because I run faster. Okay, I got a little carried away, but you get the idea.
Not because I'm not attracted to him, but because I am. Because, when I look at him, I don't just see a walking penis. Because the first thing in my head is, "This guy is a cool human," instead of, "Hmm, would I bang this guy?"
Sometimes I feel like a dude. Only looking for a lay because looking for actual potential is scary in that it requires a great amount of vulnerability and opens the door for a vast amount of heartbreak. It's much easier just to have the sex. You know what you're in for and expectations stay low. And simple. And heartbreak free.
With low expectations one doesn't picture holding hands* and going on surprisingly romantic dates. With low expectations one doesn't start hyphenating their last freakin' name and imagine taking freakin' mini breaks together. With low expectations things can only get better, right? In theory, yes. In the life of Jen? Not so much.
So I'm not sure I want my expectations to stay low, scary as it is to admit. I don't know, maybe I'm growing out of promiscuity like one grows out of their clothes. So, I feel like I have two choices. I can keep my expectations low, simple and heartbreak free with the life of a cat-lady spinster looming in my future; or I can remember that I have impossibly high expectations. And my impossibly high expectations will either lead me to the greatest love of all (thank you, Whitney Houston) or devastating heartbreak with the life of a cat-lady spinster looming in my future.
Considering cat-lady spinsterhood is a possible outcome either way, I might as well aim high. This doesn't mean that I don't have anymore old sexcapades to share. It just means that (hopefully) I won't have any new ones. Goodbye to walking penises! Hello to men I don't want to have sex with! Ya know, at first. I'm still a woman for cryin' out loud.
*Holding hands, in my opinion, is one of the most beautifully intimate gestures. I know it doesn't seem so. But when you think about it, when do we hold someone's hand? When we're in a crowd. When we cross the street. When we're running away from a bad guy in a movie. It's a way to keep someone close. It's a gesture that implies if I let you go, I might lose you. And then the bad guy will get you because I run faster. Okay, I got a little carried away, but you get the idea.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
The No More Alimony/White Trash Party
June 2012 was the last month of my 3 1/2 year divorce induced alimony. I was on my way to being poor and, by extension, depressed so I did the only thing I could do. I had a party. My last divorce related hurrah. I thought it fitting to make it a white trash theme, and that way I would have a legitimate excuse to make my guests bring food and drinks (I don't think one should host a party unless they can actually afford to host the party, but I'm a bit of a snob that way). I created an event on Facebook:
Hey ya'll, I'm about to be poor, so dress in your best white trash garb and celebrate my last alimony check ever!
In true white trash form, this party is BYOE - Bring Yer Own Everthang! I'll only have a few snacks and a tub o' cocktail slop to fill up your red solo cup, so please bring your favorite trashy snack/drink combo to share.
Hope to see ya'll there!
P.S. Please keep in mind, this is a no kids function, ya'll. We don't want to be corruptin' their sweet innocent little minds before their time!
I invited about 60 people thinking only about 20 would attend. I ended up having closer to 40 R.S.V.P. so my parents were gracious enough to let me use their home as the scene of the crime instead of my tiny apartment. I should note that my parents were there, as were a lot of their friends. One thing I like about being a "grown up" is you get to party with your parents. That is, if you have fun parents. Which, fortunately, I do.
My plan was to talk with a southern accent the entire evening. And I did. I wore an old jean skirt, a white tank top I got online that said, "If you can read this, you're about to fuck me" and a hugely padded purple animal print bra with the straps falling down. I let my hair dry naturally into a wavy friz and then teased it up like the dickens. I set up a tattoo station. I bought almost 200 temporary tattoos and laid them out with a bowl of water and a washcloth so folks could apply 'em themselves. I put one on my ankle, belly button, bicep, chest, wrist, back of my neck and the cherry on top of the white trash sundae - a tramp stamp. Feast your eyes on this:
I got the idea for the shirt from a friend who ordered one that said, "I'm not with stupid anymore." She also wore a fake pregnant belly. She was a runner up in the costume contest along with my sister who wore matching leopard print bra and shoes with short shorts and a too-low halter top (you know, so as to expose the bra that matched the shoes) and we drew tattoos all over her with eyeliner and lip liner. We drew "tattoos" on her of hearts, each filled with a different man's name and "4ever" and then drew exes through them. She had about 10 of them all over her back, chest and arms and she used a combination of smudged eyeliner and eye shadow to make bruises on her knees, but even that couldn't beat my friend who dressed up as a toddlers in tiaras girl. It was fantastic. She wore a mint green, strapless, tulle puffed dress with a sparkly tiara and carried a fan made of fake money and a handful of pixie sticks. The prize was a 40 of beer. Jealous?
I had my last alimony check blown up into poster size (thank you repro department at work) so that people could sign it. It's not surprising that the combination of alcohol and a white trash theme equaled multiple drawings of body parts.
I set up a red solo cup stand and made a tub full of a Hop, Skip and Go Naked. It's made with Pabst Blue Ribbon (or Natty Ice), vodka and frozen lemonade (not mixed with water). It's surprisingly delicious and has a tendency to hit you like a ton of road kill. Especially if play beer pong with it. And flip cup. Which we did.
No party - white trash or otherwise - is complete without jello shots, so I made four different kinds. Margarita (orange jello, tequila, triple sec and sweet & sour), Sweet Tea (lemon jello and sweet tea vodka), Adios Alimony (berry blue jello, vodka, tequila, rum and sweet & sour) and my favorite (pronunciation is key here): Peenya Cohlahda (well...strawberry cohlahda. It's more fun to say peenya cohlahda, but I couldn't find pineapple jello, so I used strawberry jello, rum and pina colada mix). I'm thinking I need to start a traveling jello shot business because my jello shots are, as Barney Stinson would say, legen...wait for it...dary!
My parents have a huge island in the kitchen of their triple wide (as one of my friends cleverly named their house for effect), and it was covered in the most delicious of all junk foods. I filled a crock pot with cocktail wienies and called them Pigs That Can't Afford the Blankets (to be pronounced Peeigs That Cain't Afford the Blaynkits). Everything else I left up to the expertise of my guests.
And my favorite creation? The winner of the costume contest brought me this cake along with a sympathy card expressing her sorrow for the loss of my (ex) husband ('s money). Does it get any more awesome? I submit that it does not!
Between the "American Made, American Played!" playlist (containing 4 hours of drinking songs), beer pong, flip cup, penny can, costumes, tattoos, southern accents, jello shots, beer drinkin' contest and general shenanigan-filled merriment, you would think there was nothing else I could possibly squeeze out of the night. You would be wrong.
One of my guests was an old crush I had in junior high and high school. Thanks to the magic of Facebook we had reconnected. And thanks to the magic of bars we had bumped into each other a few times since I'd moved back. He didn't get to the party until later in the evening but that didn't stop me from tattooing his muscle rippled arms and making sure his red solo cup was regularly topped off. And wouldn't you know? He wasn't able to drive home that night because he drank too much. I suppose I wouldn't have been a very good host if I didn't let him crash at my parent's house. And I'd have been an even worse host if I left him there all by himself. No, the polite thing to do was to crash with him. What's the big deal? It's just sleeping in the same bed. It's not like I had dirty white trash sex in my parent's house with them sleeping upstairs. Oh no, wait. That's exactly what I did.
This was my last divorce-induced party. It's like the end of an era! *tear* *sniff* *sigh* I think you know you're completely healed when you're more sad about not having any more divorce related parties than you are about being divorced. Damn, I'm good. I should have that engraved on a pillow.
Hey ya'll, I'm about to be poor, so dress in your best white trash garb and celebrate my last alimony check ever!
In true white trash form, this party is BYOE - Bring Yer Own Everthang! I'll only have a few snacks and a tub o' cocktail slop to fill up your red solo cup, so please bring your favorite trashy snack/drink combo to share.
Hope to see ya'll there!
P.S. Please keep in mind, this is a no kids function, ya'll. We don't want to be corruptin' their sweet innocent little minds before their time!
I invited about 60 people thinking only about 20 would attend. I ended up having closer to 40 R.S.V.P. so my parents were gracious enough to let me use their home as the scene of the crime instead of my tiny apartment. I should note that my parents were there, as were a lot of their friends. One thing I like about being a "grown up" is you get to party with your parents. That is, if you have fun parents. Which, fortunately, I do.
My plan was to talk with a southern accent the entire evening. And I did. I wore an old jean skirt, a white tank top I got online that said, "If you can read this, you're about to fuck me" and a hugely padded purple animal print bra with the straps falling down. I let my hair dry naturally into a wavy friz and then teased it up like the dickens. I set up a tattoo station. I bought almost 200 temporary tattoos and laid them out with a bowl of water and a washcloth so folks could apply 'em themselves. I put one on my ankle, belly button, bicep, chest, wrist, back of my neck and the cherry on top of the white trash sundae - a tramp stamp. Feast your eyes on this:
I got the idea for the shirt from a friend who ordered one that said, "I'm not with stupid anymore." She also wore a fake pregnant belly. She was a runner up in the costume contest along with my sister who wore matching leopard print bra and shoes with short shorts and a too-low halter top (you know, so as to expose the bra that matched the shoes) and we drew tattoos all over her with eyeliner and lip liner. We drew "tattoos" on her of hearts, each filled with a different man's name and "4ever" and then drew exes through them. She had about 10 of them all over her back, chest and arms and she used a combination of smudged eyeliner and eye shadow to make bruises on her knees, but even that couldn't beat my friend who dressed up as a toddlers in tiaras girl. It was fantastic. She wore a mint green, strapless, tulle puffed dress with a sparkly tiara and carried a fan made of fake money and a handful of pixie sticks. The prize was a 40 of beer. Jealous?
I had my last alimony check blown up into poster size (thank you repro department at work) so that people could sign it. It's not surprising that the combination of alcohol and a white trash theme equaled multiple drawings of body parts.
I set up a red solo cup stand and made a tub full of a Hop, Skip and Go Naked. It's made with Pabst Blue Ribbon (or Natty Ice), vodka and frozen lemonade (not mixed with water). It's surprisingly delicious and has a tendency to hit you like a ton of road kill. Especially if play beer pong with it. And flip cup. Which we did.
No party - white trash or otherwise - is complete without jello shots, so I made four different kinds. Margarita (orange jello, tequila, triple sec and sweet & sour), Sweet Tea (lemon jello and sweet tea vodka), Adios Alimony (berry blue jello, vodka, tequila, rum and sweet & sour) and my favorite (pronunciation is key here): Peenya Cohlahda (well...strawberry cohlahda. It's more fun to say peenya cohlahda, but I couldn't find pineapple jello, so I used strawberry jello, rum and pina colada mix). I'm thinking I need to start a traveling jello shot business because my jello shots are, as Barney Stinson would say, legen...wait for it...dary!
My parents have a huge island in the kitchen of their triple wide (as one of my friends cleverly named their house for effect), and it was covered in the most delicious of all junk foods. I filled a crock pot with cocktail wienies and called them Pigs That Can't Afford the Blankets (to be pronounced Peeigs That Cain't Afford the Blaynkits). Everything else I left up to the expertise of my guests.
And my favorite creation? The winner of the costume contest brought me this cake along with a sympathy card expressing her sorrow for the loss of my (ex) husband ('s money). Does it get any more awesome? I submit that it does not!
Between the "American Made, American Played!" playlist (containing 4 hours of drinking songs), beer pong, flip cup, penny can, costumes, tattoos, southern accents, jello shots, beer drinkin' contest and general shenanigan-filled merriment, you would think there was nothing else I could possibly squeeze out of the night. You would be wrong.
One of my guests was an old crush I had in junior high and high school. Thanks to the magic of Facebook we had reconnected. And thanks to the magic of bars we had bumped into each other a few times since I'd moved back. He didn't get to the party until later in the evening but that didn't stop me from tattooing his muscle rippled arms and making sure his red solo cup was regularly topped off. And wouldn't you know? He wasn't able to drive home that night because he drank too much. I suppose I wouldn't have been a very good host if I didn't let him crash at my parent's house. And I'd have been an even worse host if I left him there all by himself. No, the polite thing to do was to crash with him. What's the big deal? It's just sleeping in the same bed. It's not like I had dirty white trash sex in my parent's house with them sleeping upstairs. Oh no, wait. That's exactly what I did.
This was my last divorce-induced party. It's like the end of an era! *tear* *sniff* *sigh* I think you know you're completely healed when you're more sad about not having any more divorce related parties than you are about being divorced. Damn, I'm good. I should have that engraved on a pillow.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
The Hangover - but for reals
Looking over last year's new years resolutions I realized the only one I accomplished was to lose 15 pounds (thank you, dumb detox). Sadly, that was the most realistic of my resolutions.
We're already three days into twenty thirteen and I haven't thought of any resolutions (except for the old faithful - lose 15 pounds). I'm not gonna be too hard on myself though. At least I didn't wake up in the ER again. Wait, you haven't heard the New Year's Eve 2011 story? Well, good thing I have no shame. Gather round, kids! Pull up a cocktail and lend an ear! Here goes:
There were seven of us. We went to Walnut Creek. Well, first we had a few pre New Year's Eve party cocktails before the New Year's Eve party...and not quite enough food to go with them...and then we went to Walnut Creek. It was one of those wasted-hits-you-like-a-ton-of-bricks situations, if you know what I mean? I don't remember walking to the second bar. I don't remember taking my shoes off. I don't remember walking outside and sitting on a bench.
I vaguely remember throwing up on myself. I vaguely remember a police officer offering me a ride in either his car or an ambulance. (Even in my hazy blur the drunk tank sounded way worse than an ambulance, so I chose ambulance.) I vaguely remember calling all six of my friends and only one answering.
Then I woke up on a gurney in the ER with no shoes, no purse and no people. (I didn't have alcohol poisoning, they didn't pump my stomach. They did nothing but stick a saline drip in my arm. Which did NOT help with the hangover the next day. Thanks for nothing, John Muir.) They had me sign some paperwork and asked if I had anyone to pick me up. I had no phone and no money for a taxi. I have my sister's phone number memorized, but when I called her phone went straight to voice mail. Guess what other phone numbers I have memorized? Yep! My parents'. I had to call my parents to pick me up from the ER at 5am. They were so proud.
When I woke up at their house later that morning I called my sister. (NOW she charges her phone.) I said, "Soooo, I'm tryin' to piece together the puzzle." She laughed. And then I laughed. Because really, what else were we supposed to do? It was like The Hangover minus the tiger and the baby. Even with all seven of our stories combined, there were still holes. Here's what I did find out:
My sister and three of our friends didn't even make it to the second bar, they took a taxi home - because a police officer made them. So there was only me and two of our friends at the second bar. They weren't allowed in the ambulance with me so they followed in a taxi. They were going to hang out in the waiting room until I woke up, but got kicked out for being loud and obnoxious. And took my purse with them. Which is why I woke up with no money and no phone. As far as the no shoes part; I took them off, set them on the bar top and left them there. Luckily, the bartender put them behind the bar and I retrieved them the next night.
It's definitely laughable now, but I'm literally still paying for that laugh - in monthly installments. In case you're wondering what the moral of this story is, it's not be more responsible or don't drink so much. No, it's memorize more phone numbers!
We're already three days into twenty thirteen and I haven't thought of any resolutions (except for the old faithful - lose 15 pounds). I'm not gonna be too hard on myself though. At least I didn't wake up in the ER again. Wait, you haven't heard the New Year's Eve 2011 story? Well, good thing I have no shame. Gather round, kids! Pull up a cocktail and lend an ear! Here goes:
There were seven of us. We went to Walnut Creek. Well, first we had a few pre New Year's Eve party cocktails before the New Year's Eve party...and not quite enough food to go with them...and then we went to Walnut Creek. It was one of those wasted-hits-you-like-a-ton-of-bricks situations, if you know what I mean? I don't remember walking to the second bar. I don't remember taking my shoes off. I don't remember walking outside and sitting on a bench.
I vaguely remember throwing up on myself. I vaguely remember a police officer offering me a ride in either his car or an ambulance. (Even in my hazy blur the drunk tank sounded way worse than an ambulance, so I chose ambulance.) I vaguely remember calling all six of my friends and only one answering.
Then I woke up on a gurney in the ER with no shoes, no purse and no people. (I didn't have alcohol poisoning, they didn't pump my stomach. They did nothing but stick a saline drip in my arm. Which did NOT help with the hangover the next day. Thanks for nothing, John Muir.) They had me sign some paperwork and asked if I had anyone to pick me up. I had no phone and no money for a taxi. I have my sister's phone number memorized, but when I called her phone went straight to voice mail. Guess what other phone numbers I have memorized? Yep! My parents'. I had to call my parents to pick me up from the ER at 5am. They were so proud.
When I woke up at their house later that morning I called my sister. (NOW she charges her phone.) I said, "Soooo, I'm tryin' to piece together the puzzle." She laughed. And then I laughed. Because really, what else were we supposed to do? It was like The Hangover minus the tiger and the baby. Even with all seven of our stories combined, there were still holes. Here's what I did find out:
My sister and three of our friends didn't even make it to the second bar, they took a taxi home - because a police officer made them. So there was only me and two of our friends at the second bar. They weren't allowed in the ambulance with me so they followed in a taxi. They were going to hang out in the waiting room until I woke up, but got kicked out for being loud and obnoxious. And took my purse with them. Which is why I woke up with no money and no phone. As far as the no shoes part; I took them off, set them on the bar top and left them there. Luckily, the bartender put them behind the bar and I retrieved them the next night.
It's definitely laughable now, but I'm literally still paying for that laugh - in monthly installments. In case you're wondering what the moral of this story is, it's not be more responsible or don't drink so much. No, it's memorize more phone numbers!
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Share and share alike
Last night, girls night, we went to a bar called Dan's in Walnut Creek. (I call this place The Scene of The Crime, but that's a story for another day.) We managed to secure ourselves a table so we'd have somewhere to sit when we needed a break from dancing. During one such break, a stumbly drunk red headed dude approached our table. He introduced himself, asked our names and shook our hands. His girlfriend was standing a few feet away and struck up a conversation with me.
Girlfriend: Sorry. He's so drunk!
Me: Oh, no worries.
Girlfriend: Hey, your hair is amazing! It's red, right? Sorry, it's dark in here.
Me: Yes, it is, thank you!
Girlfriend: He's (referring to her boyfriend, the stumbly drunk) the first ginger I've ever had. We've been together 2 1/2 years. We LOVE redheads!
Me (inner monologue on account of the speechlessness): Wait, what?
Me (out loud): It's self inflicted, I dye it.
Girlfriend: It's beautiful!
Me: Thanks.
Girlfriend: I don't want to sound weird, but you have a great rack!
Me: Oh, uh, haha, thanks, that's just Victoria's Secret!
Girlfriend: Hey, me too!
At this point she says something to her ginger boyfriend and he introduces himself to me - again - and shakes my hand - again. I say, "We already met!" He just stares at me blankly, still shaking my hand. And I'm pretty sure the girlfriend is playing with my hair. Yep, she's playing with my hair! And he just smelled my hair! I do my best to ignore all of that and with my free hand, pull my caged hand out of the ginger's and swap it with the girlfriend's free hand. So now they're holding hands and she has stopped playing with my hair. Then they leave.
I turn to my friends who all say some version of, "What the hell was that?!" I relay the conversation I had with the girlfriend and say, "Um, I think they wanted to have sex with me!" They never actually asked, but I'm thinking when I took my hand away and put their two hands together, instead of, I don't know, wrapping their hands around mine threesome style, it must have been the international sign for, "No, I do not want to have sex with you, couple."
Take note. It could happen to you.
Girlfriend: Sorry. He's so drunk!
Me: Oh, no worries.
Girlfriend: Hey, your hair is amazing! It's red, right? Sorry, it's dark in here.
Me: Yes, it is, thank you!
Girlfriend: He's (referring to her boyfriend, the stumbly drunk) the first ginger I've ever had. We've been together 2 1/2 years. We LOVE redheads!
Me (inner monologue on account of the speechlessness): Wait, what?
Me (out loud): It's self inflicted, I dye it.
Girlfriend: It's beautiful!
Me: Thanks.
Girlfriend: I don't want to sound weird, but you have a great rack!
Me: Oh, uh, haha, thanks, that's just Victoria's Secret!
Girlfriend: Hey, me too!
At this point she says something to her ginger boyfriend and he introduces himself to me - again - and shakes my hand - again. I say, "We already met!" He just stares at me blankly, still shaking my hand. And I'm pretty sure the girlfriend is playing with my hair. Yep, she's playing with my hair! And he just smelled my hair! I do my best to ignore all of that and with my free hand, pull my caged hand out of the ginger's and swap it with the girlfriend's free hand. So now they're holding hands and she has stopped playing with my hair. Then they leave.
I turn to my friends who all say some version of, "What the hell was that?!" I relay the conversation I had with the girlfriend and say, "Um, I think they wanted to have sex with me!" They never actually asked, but I'm thinking when I took my hand away and put their two hands together, instead of, I don't know, wrapping their hands around mine threesome style, it must have been the international sign for, "No, I do not want to have sex with you, couple."
Take note. It could happen to you.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Grandmas say the darndest things: another batch of crazy
Grandma got some tests done and it's official: she has frontal lobe dementia. Apparently it's a pretty difficult form of dementia and often times the "signs" aren't recognized for many years. In other words, before you call your grandma a bat-shit crazy bitch, take her to have her brain x-rayed. Or whatever it is they do. Anyway, here are some more of the stories she's made up:
The house she's living in is going to be divided into 2 pieces (no, it's not). In one half will be the old people who can't take care of themselves, you know, the kind that need help walking and wiping their own ass (people like her). In the other half will be my sister's ex-ex-boyfriend and a few of his police officer buddies, because they're going to help take care of said old people. Not her, of course, she's going to have to move out because...wait for it...she's getting married!
Yep, she and Laurie (if you recall, Laurie is her first love and the 90-something year old man I'm trying to steal from her) are getting married! When, you ask? Well, when is the party? What party, you ask? The one my mom is throwing for her (she's not throwing a party for her) on Sunday, that's what the party is for, after all! (Hey mom, remember that mystery party you're throwing for grandma? It's her wedding! You're gonna have a new daddy! It's important that you remember that just because she loves Laurie, it doesn't mean she doesn't still love you). Which Sunday, you ask? She doesn't know, it's whatever Sunday comes after she moves out of the house (you know, after it gets divided into 2 pieces. You gotta remember the details if you're gonna keep up. If you're having trouble remembering the details you might want to have you brain x-rayed. If this conversation made you dizzy, welcome to our world).
My favorite new story of hers is, of course, about The Ex. You see, The Ex has been chanting my name in the middle of the night (possible, but not likely) and his new wife didn't take too kindly to that behavior, so...she shot him. Now, I'm not saying that my Grandma's stories are premonitions, but she has always been a little clairvoyant. Just sayin'.
The house she's living in is going to be divided into 2 pieces (no, it's not). In one half will be the old people who can't take care of themselves, you know, the kind that need help walking and wiping their own ass (people like her). In the other half will be my sister's ex-ex-boyfriend and a few of his police officer buddies, because they're going to help take care of said old people. Not her, of course, she's going to have to move out because...wait for it...she's getting married!
Yep, she and Laurie (if you recall, Laurie is her first love and the 90-something year old man I'm trying to steal from her) are getting married! When, you ask? Well, when is the party? What party, you ask? The one my mom is throwing for her (she's not throwing a party for her) on Sunday, that's what the party is for, after all! (Hey mom, remember that mystery party you're throwing for grandma? It's her wedding! You're gonna have a new daddy! It's important that you remember that just because she loves Laurie, it doesn't mean she doesn't still love you). Which Sunday, you ask? She doesn't know, it's whatever Sunday comes after she moves out of the house (you know, after it gets divided into 2 pieces. You gotta remember the details if you're gonna keep up. If you're having trouble remembering the details you might want to have you brain x-rayed. If this conversation made you dizzy, welcome to our world).
My favorite new story of hers is, of course, about The Ex. You see, The Ex has been chanting my name in the middle of the night (possible, but not likely) and his new wife didn't take too kindly to that behavior, so...she shot him. Now, I'm not saying that my Grandma's stories are premonitions, but she has always been a little clairvoyant. Just sayin'.
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