Tragedy or Triumph TBD
I am an outgoing, fun-loving girl. I love to go out, I have a lot of friends, I am passionate about everything I do, and I take care of myself and my body. I feel no need to have a boyfriend, fiance, or husband this second, but sometimes it would be nice to have some companionship. (And I don't mean the kind of companionship that happens in many of my other blog posts). While I don't have a shortage of male friends to text at 2am, sometimes I feel I want a male friend to text at 2pm. Or better yet, receive a text from HIM at 2pm just to make me smile.
After discussing it with mostly supportive friends and my critical sister, I caved and signed up for OkCupid. Immediately I liked it because I get to fill out tons of information about myself! I admit I like that stuff. I think a lot of people are lying if they tell you they don't to be honest. They ask simple questions: Mini-bio, What are you doing with your life? What do you spend a lot of time thinking about? Good questions that require slight originality and personality to answer even somewhat cleverly. There is also a "Questions" section with multiple choice options that are all opinion based. Example: How do you feel about same sex couple having kids? A) Accepting B)Not accepting. I choose (A) and then state what answer I would require in a potential match. I say that I would like my match to also choose (A) and then can list how important it is to me. It can be "Irrelevant," "Somewhat important," or "Mandatory." OkCupid uses a lot of these questions to match me up. Again, these questions are mostly fun to answer and you can always add an explanation. The explanations are fun and the questions are very diverse. Some examples: "How irritated do you get with spelling mistakes?" "How important is art to you?" "Are you disgusted my smoking?" Some of them are too personal to answer for me, but I have to answer a question to see a potential match's response. Sometimes I am so curious I answer it just so I can see someone's answer!
I already had my first good and bad OkCupid interaction. OkCupid picks out matches for their singles called "Quivers." The first person OkCupid matches me with is someone with the username "Fattness." Yes, you read that right. "Fattness." Already I don't know how they matched us because we are 63% match, 64% friends, and 29% enemies. It seems like none of those percentages are enough to get me to contact him. Fattness starts his bio with, "I don't like talking about myself like this." Then continues to ramble on about how good his style is and how much he enjoys smoking weed and not having a job. "Music, food, air, water, sex, and weed" are the six things he cannot live without. Just to show you the contrast here, my six were, "art, chap stick, vodka, cute clothes, my family, and my skis." I was pretty sure that NO ONE could survive without food, air, water, and sex. There should just be some originality here. I did have a good interaction though and got a very nice message from a guy who manages a restaurant in Seattle... I already messaged him back and will hope for the best!
(Update) Restaurant guy and I are going out this weekend!
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Friday, November 12, 2010
My Moment As Sherlock
Triumph
Every Saturday had the same routine: wake up, wait for it to be time to go out, go out, get shitfaced, go to McDonald's, have a really hard time falling asleep, and then puke my brains out.
I didn't know what part of this equation was actually the part that was making me puke my brains out. And I was having so much fun until 4:00 AM that I just kept continuing the same pattern. I felt that the mean, surly lady working the drive-through at McDonald's and I had a pretty mutual hatred going for one another, so there was no way I was going to sacrifice that. The drinking might have been part of the problem... but I had drank for so long and so much, that I could not figure out why all of a sudden, Rainier made me end my night so sourly. I was doing fine drinking before. I was able to definitely deduce that it was not the waiting around to start drinking that would eventually lead to my session with the toilet. (Mostly because I started drinking while I was waiting around for my friends to start drinking, but I still blew chunks at the end of the night). Ok, as much I hated to admit to myself or to my friends, I had a problem with McDonald's.
McDonald's had to be the culprit. I needed to back off the Ronald train but it was embarrassing! Who doesn't want to enjoy a balanced 1200 calorie meal after drinking a twelve-pack? I needed to admit to my friends that I couldn't enjoy our late night snack... or meal after going to our favorite bars. "Umm... yeah I'll have a $50 tab at the bar but I'm going to skip the burger guys. I'm trying to watch my weight/wallet..." I don't fucking think so.
I let this trend continue a few more rounds. I wasn't ready to give up my date with Ronald every Saturday night. Or Thursday night. I just had to be aware that if I had a date with Ronald, I was also planning on going down on the toilet. That was fun for a little bit, but it eventually got to the point where I just couldn't take it anymore. I had to forgo the McD's. It hurt a little bit at first, but then I talked myself into acknowledging that I could do without and I would be fine.
So on the day I knew I had to give up McDonald's, I wake up, wait for it to be time to go out, and go out. I tell them that under no circumstance am I allowed to eat McDonald's. I explain to them that it is not worth the lack of sleep and heart burn that I endure the next day and they were very understanding. It is no secret within our group of friends that I have the stomach of a 65 year old man, so they were not surprised when I gave up our fifth meal. I still had a blast going out. I continue my regular Saturday night trend of getting shitfaced and racking up a huge tab, and then it's time to leave. My good friend is driving and I remind everyone in the car the I am not, in any way shape or from, allowed to consume anything from the Golden Arches. We drive away from the bar and everyone else wants McDonald's, so we go. It takes us a few minutes to finally get up the microphone to tell the biatch working the window what we want. The driver politely orders on behalf of the car. I roll my window down. "I WANT A QUARTER POUNDER WITH CHEESE! AND A SODA. AND A DIP CONE." The damage was done. I, to this day, appreciate that the girls in the car all questioned my choice, but I was reluctant to listen. I wanted a quarter punder with cheese more than I wanted anything else ever in my entire life. No one was going to keep me away. "A what?" says the lady working the window. I list again what I need. She's annoyed. Like I care?! I have an angelic meal coming my way. Thank goodness.
The time comes to pick up our goods at the second window. It takes all the willpower I have to stop me from eating in the car. The driver drops my roommate and I off at our apartment and we go inside to eat our food. I admittedly had already inhaled the dip cone in the car; I needed to eat it quickly anyway. I take out my fries and quarter pounder and enjoy every bite! This was probably the best quarter pounder that I had ever had! Good thing I was going to be able to have it twice...
About halfway through my meal, I realize I made my frequent mistake. I decide I should just try to quit while I'm ahead and go to bed. With my drunken logic (or lack thereof), I also decide that I would keep the rest if my burger on my nightstand so that I could eat it for breakfast. Luckily I was able to fall asleep with only a little bit of stomach growling. I dream a little bit about my dip cone... and then... the inevitable happens. I wake up with a serious need to blow chunks. I run out of my room, across the hall, and bend over the toilet. FML. How had I gotten myself into this again?! I had given myself so many pep-talks about ditching this stuff and here I was. It was painful, violent, and at one point I am pretty sure life-threatening.
Ugh. After my time in the bathroom I was finally able to sleep like a baby. I slept so hard, there was nothing that could interrupt me. Sunday afternoon rolls around and I finally wake up. Shit. I was so much happier sleeping. I go into the bathroom as per my usual morning routine and I have something on my face. Wait, it's not just on my face, it smears down from the corner of my mouth to by ear, to neck, and when I feel the back of my neck, it's in my hair too. Whoa. I don't remember this at all. I was able to deduce with my Sherlock-like talents that I had thrown up in my sleep. Multiple times. All over myself. It's repulsive. I squirm at the thought with what I have done and get in the shower. I actually had to turn over in the shower so that I could get the chunk off the nape of my neck and out of the roots of my hair. I had reached a new low.
After several rounds of shampoo, I finally feel clean. I dry off and go back into my room. My sheets, pillows, and blankets are obviously covered in puke as well. But wait... is that breakfast on my nightstand? Score!
Why would anyone call this story a triumph? I, like most golf players, can be happy with new lows.
Every Saturday had the same routine: wake up, wait for it to be time to go out, go out, get shitfaced, go to McDonald's, have a really hard time falling asleep, and then puke my brains out.
I didn't know what part of this equation was actually the part that was making me puke my brains out. And I was having so much fun until 4:00 AM that I just kept continuing the same pattern. I felt that the mean, surly lady working the drive-through at McDonald's and I had a pretty mutual hatred going for one another, so there was no way I was going to sacrifice that. The drinking might have been part of the problem... but I had drank for so long and so much, that I could not figure out why all of a sudden, Rainier made me end my night so sourly. I was doing fine drinking before. I was able to definitely deduce that it was not the waiting around to start drinking that would eventually lead to my session with the toilet. (Mostly because I started drinking while I was waiting around for my friends to start drinking, but I still blew chunks at the end of the night). Ok, as much I hated to admit to myself or to my friends, I had a problem with McDonald's.
McDonald's had to be the culprit. I needed to back off the Ronald train but it was embarrassing! Who doesn't want to enjoy a balanced 1200 calorie meal after drinking a twelve-pack? I needed to admit to my friends that I couldn't enjoy our late night snack... or meal after going to our favorite bars. "Umm... yeah I'll have a $50 tab at the bar but I'm going to skip the burger guys. I'm trying to watch my weight/wallet..." I don't fucking think so.
I let this trend continue a few more rounds. I wasn't ready to give up my date with Ronald every Saturday night. Or Thursday night. I just had to be aware that if I had a date with Ronald, I was also planning on going down on the toilet. That was fun for a little bit, but it eventually got to the point where I just couldn't take it anymore. I had to forgo the McD's. It hurt a little bit at first, but then I talked myself into acknowledging that I could do without and I would be fine.
So on the day I knew I had to give up McDonald's, I wake up, wait for it to be time to go out, and go out. I tell them that under no circumstance am I allowed to eat McDonald's. I explain to them that it is not worth the lack of sleep and heart burn that I endure the next day and they were very understanding. It is no secret within our group of friends that I have the stomach of a 65 year old man, so they were not surprised when I gave up our fifth meal. I still had a blast going out. I continue my regular Saturday night trend of getting shitfaced and racking up a huge tab, and then it's time to leave. My good friend is driving and I remind everyone in the car the I am not, in any way shape or from, allowed to consume anything from the Golden Arches. We drive away from the bar and everyone else wants McDonald's, so we go. It takes us a few minutes to finally get up the microphone to tell the biatch working the window what we want. The driver politely orders on behalf of the car. I roll my window down. "I WANT A QUARTER POUNDER WITH CHEESE! AND A SODA. AND A DIP CONE." The damage was done. I, to this day, appreciate that the girls in the car all questioned my choice, but I was reluctant to listen. I wanted a quarter punder with cheese more than I wanted anything else ever in my entire life. No one was going to keep me away. "A what?" says the lady working the window. I list again what I need. She's annoyed. Like I care?! I have an angelic meal coming my way. Thank goodness.
The time comes to pick up our goods at the second window. It takes all the willpower I have to stop me from eating in the car. The driver drops my roommate and I off at our apartment and we go inside to eat our food. I admittedly had already inhaled the dip cone in the car; I needed to eat it quickly anyway. I take out my fries and quarter pounder and enjoy every bite! This was probably the best quarter pounder that I had ever had! Good thing I was going to be able to have it twice...
About halfway through my meal, I realize I made my frequent mistake. I decide I should just try to quit while I'm ahead and go to bed. With my drunken logic (or lack thereof), I also decide that I would keep the rest if my burger on my nightstand so that I could eat it for breakfast. Luckily I was able to fall asleep with only a little bit of stomach growling. I dream a little bit about my dip cone... and then... the inevitable happens. I wake up with a serious need to blow chunks. I run out of my room, across the hall, and bend over the toilet. FML. How had I gotten myself into this again?! I had given myself so many pep-talks about ditching this stuff and here I was. It was painful, violent, and at one point I am pretty sure life-threatening.
Ugh. After my time in the bathroom I was finally able to sleep like a baby. I slept so hard, there was nothing that could interrupt me. Sunday afternoon rolls around and I finally wake up. Shit. I was so much happier sleeping. I go into the bathroom as per my usual morning routine and I have something on my face. Wait, it's not just on my face, it smears down from the corner of my mouth to by ear, to neck, and when I feel the back of my neck, it's in my hair too. Whoa. I don't remember this at all. I was able to deduce with my Sherlock-like talents that I had thrown up in my sleep. Multiple times. All over myself. It's repulsive. I squirm at the thought with what I have done and get in the shower. I actually had to turn over in the shower so that I could get the chunk off the nape of my neck and out of the roots of my hair. I had reached a new low.
After several rounds of shampoo, I finally feel clean. I dry off and go back into my room. My sheets, pillows, and blankets are obviously covered in puke as well. But wait... is that breakfast on my nightstand? Score!
Why would anyone call this story a triumph? I, like most golf players, can be happy with new lows.
Quotes
About morals, I know only that what is moral is what you feel good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after.
- Ernest Hemingway
- Ernest Hemingway
Monday, October 25, 2010
Liquid Gold
Tragedy
Everyone has these nights in their life. They just partied too hard, got too drunk, and sent too many drunken text messages. Unfortunately (maybe fortunately), I have had more nights like this than your average young woman… or two average young women combined. I was out celebrating the fact that it was the Monday of a long three day weekend at a real dive bar. Half the group I was partying with had fake ID’s and no idea what to do in a bar. I think two of them even came in with Happy Meals.
The bar must have been excited it was the end of the weekend too because they were having a special… $5 pitchers of PBR. Umm... Did someone say liquid gold for $5 a pitcher?! Halleluiah! I believe I have previously emphasized my affinity for drinking out of pitchers and this was no exception. I literally drank as much as I could. I wasn’t spending much money and loved the economic efficiency of this.
I was having so much fun getting go so drunk, that I skipped going to the bathroom. Take a break from my peewee football friends for a trip to the ladies room? No way. I was there to party. And party we did. We drank until the staff of the bar turned all the lights on and was yelling at us to get out of the bar. They were pissed at us and totally onto the fake ID’s. While they were telling me to get out, I specifically remember having a pitcher in hand, up to my mouth, chugging, and looking at the bartender as he is telling me to put it down and get out. I somehow convinced myself that he was just trying to take my beer just to be mean and I needed to finish it before he could get to it. So I really opened the throat and chugged what was left as fast as I could.
Finally my posse and I leave the bar. There is a crappy pizza shop a few blocks away that has a walk up window. Obviously, this was out next destination. But on the walk to the pizza-window I realize I have to use the restroom. And it really hit me. This wasn’t a “I can hold this for a while” pee; this was a, “I NEED TO GET TO THE BATHROOM SOON OR THIS IS GOING TO GET REALLY UGLY” kind of pee. I try to regroup. “You are a grown up Lady Tata. Pull yourself together,” I reassured myself. “Grown ups don’t have to rush to the bathroom like this.” I convinced myself to hold it until we got to the pizza place. The first sign I see when I step up to the window reads, “No public restroom.” Oh shit. I ask, beg, and plead. I tell the nice men working at the window that I am not just “the public.” I am with a large group of people all buying pizza (while I can’t fathom of the fact of anything entering my body). I am sure that I was very rude when I reminded them that this was a restaurant and they should have restroom available to the their customers. They not so politely reminded me that they were not a “restaurant” and they were only a “pizza window.” I didn’t have many options here.
Most of the group I was with lived in one house and we had to pass their house in order for me to walk to mine. In the walk to pass their house and drop them off, I somehow convince myself that I don’t have to go. Lady Tata had succeeded in convincing herself that she was in fact an adult. So when all the girls asked me if I wanted to come in and use the bathroom, I declined. It was only another several blocks to my house. It was nothing Lady Tata couldn’t handle.
So here I am, walking alone in the U District, down frat row, and it hits me again. Oh my god. Shit. What am I going to do? I seriously have to pee so bad. I resorted to holding myself and waddling so that my thighs were held together. I couldn’t lose it. I then I laughed at myself. UH OH. I felt that I had peed a little bit. Pretty much just enough to feel some moisture is my pants. This made me laugh again. And I just couldn’t hold it. I completely peed. Two, maybe three, whole pitchers of what was previously PBR liquid gold. I tried to pull my pants down as fast as I could and managed to get them down just in time to pee a little bit on the back of my pants. And then I had to pull them back up for the rest of the walk home. Gross. And I still had a few blocks to go, but it was dark and I was in jeans, so I was able to laugh to myself a little bit and finish the walk home. I was much more relieved than disgusted or embarrassed. I finally get to my house, use the bathroom one more time (just to be safe), strip off my clothes, and hop into bed.
I wake up the next morning for class and I have gotten myself in trouble again. I am running really late for class. My homework must be turned in within the first fifteen minutes of class. I calculate that if I leave my place in the next ten minutes, I would just make it in time. I grab the first outfit I can find on the floor and rush to class – about a twenty-minute light jog. I finally get there and got my work turned in on time… another relief.
Studies show that they average college aged person has an attention span of about 55 minutes. This is a two-hour class. I have a headache, I want to be in bed, and I need some greasy food. And at the 55 minute-marker of class I smell it. What could that possibly be? Road kill? Did someone burn their hair? I look around at my classmates. It is prime economics-major meat. Most of these people take a few showers a week. Hygiene is not on their list of concerns and frequently they have stained clothes and should’ve been washed yesterday hair. I immediately blame it on the large young man next to me. He has some nasty pants on that I know he wears five days a week, a pretty bad skin condition on his face, and the signature greasy hair. This guy has got to be the one who stinks. I scoot my chair as far away as I can from him. Ugh. All of a sudden the large guy doesn’t seem so bad because this skinny girl next to be has got to be the one with the odor. I don’t care if her notes are color-coded, she must have eaten something really bad yesterday that is now leaking out of her pours and about to poison the whole class. I scoot close the large zero-hygiene nerd again. All of the pieces come together in this instant. I am wearing the pants I wore last night and I am the one poisoning the class. I am only 56 minutes into class and disgusted with myself. The paranoia sets in and I imagine how the skinny and fast non-smellers felt next to me. They were the ones dreading my scooting close to them this whole time!
Because of the way I had apparently gracefully my jeans over my desk chair, they were able to completely dry. There was zero moisture. But the smell was awful. I had to sit through class and then was able to go home and change my pants, go back to campus, and to continue on with my day.
What did I learn from this? Probably nothing. Lady Tata can’t even tell herself what to do.
Everyone has these nights in their life. They just partied too hard, got too drunk, and sent too many drunken text messages. Unfortunately (maybe fortunately), I have had more nights like this than your average young woman… or two average young women combined. I was out celebrating the fact that it was the Monday of a long three day weekend at a real dive bar. Half the group I was partying with had fake ID’s and no idea what to do in a bar. I think two of them even came in with Happy Meals.
The bar must have been excited it was the end of the weekend too because they were having a special… $5 pitchers of PBR. Umm... Did someone say liquid gold for $5 a pitcher?! Halleluiah! I believe I have previously emphasized my affinity for drinking out of pitchers and this was no exception. I literally drank as much as I could. I wasn’t spending much money and loved the economic efficiency of this.
I was having so much fun getting go so drunk, that I skipped going to the bathroom. Take a break from my peewee football friends for a trip to the ladies room? No way. I was there to party. And party we did. We drank until the staff of the bar turned all the lights on and was yelling at us to get out of the bar. They were pissed at us and totally onto the fake ID’s. While they were telling me to get out, I specifically remember having a pitcher in hand, up to my mouth, chugging, and looking at the bartender as he is telling me to put it down and get out. I somehow convinced myself that he was just trying to take my beer just to be mean and I needed to finish it before he could get to it. So I really opened the throat and chugged what was left as fast as I could.
Finally my posse and I leave the bar. There is a crappy pizza shop a few blocks away that has a walk up window. Obviously, this was out next destination. But on the walk to the pizza-window I realize I have to use the restroom. And it really hit me. This wasn’t a “I can hold this for a while” pee; this was a, “I NEED TO GET TO THE BATHROOM SOON OR THIS IS GOING TO GET REALLY UGLY” kind of pee. I try to regroup. “You are a grown up Lady Tata. Pull yourself together,” I reassured myself. “Grown ups don’t have to rush to the bathroom like this.” I convinced myself to hold it until we got to the pizza place. The first sign I see when I step up to the window reads, “No public restroom.” Oh shit. I ask, beg, and plead. I tell the nice men working at the window that I am not just “the public.” I am with a large group of people all buying pizza (while I can’t fathom of the fact of anything entering my body). I am sure that I was very rude when I reminded them that this was a restaurant and they should have restroom available to the their customers. They not so politely reminded me that they were not a “restaurant” and they were only a “pizza window.” I didn’t have many options here.
Most of the group I was with lived in one house and we had to pass their house in order for me to walk to mine. In the walk to pass their house and drop them off, I somehow convince myself that I don’t have to go. Lady Tata had succeeded in convincing herself that she was in fact an adult. So when all the girls asked me if I wanted to come in and use the bathroom, I declined. It was only another several blocks to my house. It was nothing Lady Tata couldn’t handle.
So here I am, walking alone in the U District, down frat row, and it hits me again. Oh my god. Shit. What am I going to do? I seriously have to pee so bad. I resorted to holding myself and waddling so that my thighs were held together. I couldn’t lose it. I then I laughed at myself. UH OH. I felt that I had peed a little bit. Pretty much just enough to feel some moisture is my pants. This made me laugh again. And I just couldn’t hold it. I completely peed. Two, maybe three, whole pitchers of what was previously PBR liquid gold. I tried to pull my pants down as fast as I could and managed to get them down just in time to pee a little bit on the back of my pants. And then I had to pull them back up for the rest of the walk home. Gross. And I still had a few blocks to go, but it was dark and I was in jeans, so I was able to laugh to myself a little bit and finish the walk home. I was much more relieved than disgusted or embarrassed. I finally get to my house, use the bathroom one more time (just to be safe), strip off my clothes, and hop into bed.
I wake up the next morning for class and I have gotten myself in trouble again. I am running really late for class. My homework must be turned in within the first fifteen minutes of class. I calculate that if I leave my place in the next ten minutes, I would just make it in time. I grab the first outfit I can find on the floor and rush to class – about a twenty-minute light jog. I finally get there and got my work turned in on time… another relief.
Studies show that they average college aged person has an attention span of about 55 minutes. This is a two-hour class. I have a headache, I want to be in bed, and I need some greasy food. And at the 55 minute-marker of class I smell it. What could that possibly be? Road kill? Did someone burn their hair? I look around at my classmates. It is prime economics-major meat. Most of these people take a few showers a week. Hygiene is not on their list of concerns and frequently they have stained clothes and should’ve been washed yesterday hair. I immediately blame it on the large young man next to me. He has some nasty pants on that I know he wears five days a week, a pretty bad skin condition on his face, and the signature greasy hair. This guy has got to be the one who stinks. I scoot my chair as far away as I can from him. Ugh. All of a sudden the large guy doesn’t seem so bad because this skinny girl next to be has got to be the one with the odor. I don’t care if her notes are color-coded, she must have eaten something really bad yesterday that is now leaking out of her pours and about to poison the whole class. I scoot close the large zero-hygiene nerd again. All of the pieces come together in this instant. I am wearing the pants I wore last night and I am the one poisoning the class. I am only 56 minutes into class and disgusted with myself. The paranoia sets in and I imagine how the skinny and fast non-smellers felt next to me. They were the ones dreading my scooting close to them this whole time!
Because of the way I had apparently gracefully my jeans over my desk chair, they were able to completely dry. There was zero moisture. But the smell was awful. I had to sit through class and then was able to go home and change my pants, go back to campus, and to continue on with my day.
What did I learn from this? Probably nothing. Lady Tata can’t even tell herself what to do.
Monday, June 21, 2010
At Least I'm Not Doing Drugs AND Sleeping Around
Triumph
Going out for just a weekend in Sun Valley, I had to run into some adventures. It was inevitable. Small town means I am going to run into a lot of people I know and there's a lot of money which means that there better some people buying me drinks. I go into a dive bar in town. And I don't mean "dive bar" like they have some beat up posters on the wall. You can smoke in this bar, they don't have a credit card machine, and you get your PBR for free if you can guess the card that is on the lid of the bottle. There are some seriously awesome characters in this place. No matter what day of the week you go, every alcoholic in town is parked on a bar stool or at their regular table. It's really too loud and the smoke in the air is repulsive to someone who isn't a regular smoker. I usually even stash my coat outside so it does not absorb the smell as bad; having my hair and clothes reek is enough. Why do I even go to this bar you ask? Because sometimes, I actually enjoy having no class.
I am not at the bar long before I run into a snowboard instructor I know from the mountain. He also happens to be a waiter at the nicest restaurant in town - so I know him from both of these places. I have already had too many beers. So I am definitely feeling awesome, but when I run into this instructor, he pronounces my name wrong. NOT cool. I admit that many people pronounce my name wrong, so I politely said, "You know, I will let it slide this time, but really it is pronounced like '_____.'" He profusely apologizes. I can tell by how much he is apologizing that he means it, or at least is trying to hook up with me, so I let it slide. Neither of those intentions are going to offend me. He then says that in order to make it up to me, he wants to buy me a drink. "You like tequila?" he says and I smile. "Patron?" I am actually starting to like this guy... Even though he's a snowboarder.
We take our shot together and sit down to talk. There isn't a lot to chat about. We discuss what we have been doing the last few months... And then out of what I feel is nowhere he says that he has some really good coke and asks if I want some. I tell him that I have never done coke and he insists that this is the time to try it. He did not pressure me in any way, and I knew it was something I wanted to try. When I agree to do it with him, he informs me that it is still at the restaurant because he accidentally left it at work. I happen to be a close family friend of the owner of this restaurant (his boss) and am hesitant again... for about thirty seconds. I want to try it. I tell him that I don't think his boss would be very happy if he knew we were doing coke in there. He quickly corrects me and tells me that his boss loves me and would be really happy that we were hanging out. (Obviously snowboard instructor here doesn't know that his boss actually tried to set me up with his son.)
We walk to the restaurant and it starts to get really cliche. He goes to his locker and gets out the blow. He sets up the lines on the bathroom counter with his credit card. What do we snort it with? A hundred dollar bill of course. I love this shit. From the second I am doing it, I enjoy it. The taste, the slight burn, the smell, I like it all. I do a few lines and feel like I should take a break. I am wired. This instructor informs me that he is really horny. But there is no way I am interested in this guy beyond the coke. But I still feel like making out with him is fair. We make out for a while and it's a lot of fun. Until he starts talking. "You are so beautiful. I want to date you. You are such a good kisser. Ohmygosh I love making out with you." He must be Hilary Duff's oldest fan! He is also thirty-eight. I am really not one to be concerned about his age... but the beautiful and dating shit? Not for me and definitely not sexy. I tell him that I don't want to hear that shit and he immediately starts that sappy, "Come on baby, tell me who hurt you? Who made you like this?" This guy must think I am a Hilary Duff fan too! All I am doing is making out with this guy. I had tequila and coke in me, I couldn't make the decision NOT to make out with him. After this conversation goes on for a few minutes I am bored with what snowboard instructor is saying and the making out. It is time for me to organize.
The restaurant has the place settings up for the next day and they are all complex. Each setting has two glasses, two plates, and dozen pieces of cutlery. I ask the snowboard instructor to take them all off one of the tables and he does. I then spend the next two hours re-setting the table meticulously. Fine tuning the location of each candle, wine glass, and escargot fork was perfect for the high I was experiencing.
After setting the table though, I was bored and wanted to go home. I ask to go home and of course he invites me back to his house. "There is no way, take me home please." He drives me home and I need to go to bed, it's light out and I have been partying for hours. As I try to fall asleep he is still texting me. I put my phone on silent and catch some zzz's.
The next morning I have no plans to but to lay in the sun - it's blue sky and much warmer than Seattle. I get a phone call. SERIOUSLY? I thought I made it clear last night that I already need some space from this guy. Of course he is calling. He asks me how I feel and what I am doing for the day. I tell him that I feel dehydrated but otherwise fine and mention that I am going to the store to pick up some sunscreen. More small talk... and he says that he will call me later because he wants to take me out. I cringe and just tell him that I will talk to him soon. I run into the grocery store and hear my name, at least pronounced correctly and cringe again. It's him! He tells me that he was "just driving by the store and needed to come in and harass me." He succeeded. I am so annoyed with this dude. Does he pick up on any clues?! He told me on the phone that he was at home at the time... he went out of his way to "harass" me at the store. He follows me around watching everything I put in my basket. When he finally decides that it is time for him to leave the store he kisses me on the cheek and says, "See you later babe." Woof. I agree again that we will talk soon, but I already knew that I would be ignoring him for the rest of weekend. He calls me and texts me a few more times in the short time that I am in town and I choose to ignore all of them.
Why would I dare to call this story a triumph? I still had an awesome time. The coke, the partying, the making out... it was still fun. And I learned I don't like thirty-eight year old men with too much chest hair.
Going out for just a weekend in Sun Valley, I had to run into some adventures. It was inevitable. Small town means I am going to run into a lot of people I know and there's a lot of money which means that there better some people buying me drinks. I go into a dive bar in town. And I don't mean "dive bar" like they have some beat up posters on the wall. You can smoke in this bar, they don't have a credit card machine, and you get your PBR for free if you can guess the card that is on the lid of the bottle. There are some seriously awesome characters in this place. No matter what day of the week you go, every alcoholic in town is parked on a bar stool or at their regular table. It's really too loud and the smoke in the air is repulsive to someone who isn't a regular smoker. I usually even stash my coat outside so it does not absorb the smell as bad; having my hair and clothes reek is enough. Why do I even go to this bar you ask? Because sometimes, I actually enjoy having no class.
I am not at the bar long before I run into a snowboard instructor I know from the mountain. He also happens to be a waiter at the nicest restaurant in town - so I know him from both of these places. I have already had too many beers. So I am definitely feeling awesome, but when I run into this instructor, he pronounces my name wrong. NOT cool. I admit that many people pronounce my name wrong, so I politely said, "You know, I will let it slide this time, but really it is pronounced like '_____.'" He profusely apologizes. I can tell by how much he is apologizing that he means it, or at least is trying to hook up with me, so I let it slide. Neither of those intentions are going to offend me. He then says that in order to make it up to me, he wants to buy me a drink. "You like tequila?" he says and I smile. "Patron?" I am actually starting to like this guy... Even though he's a snowboarder.
We take our shot together and sit down to talk. There isn't a lot to chat about. We discuss what we have been doing the last few months... And then out of what I feel is nowhere he says that he has some really good coke and asks if I want some. I tell him that I have never done coke and he insists that this is the time to try it. He did not pressure me in any way, and I knew it was something I wanted to try. When I agree to do it with him, he informs me that it is still at the restaurant because he accidentally left it at work. I happen to be a close family friend of the owner of this restaurant (his boss) and am hesitant again... for about thirty seconds. I want to try it. I tell him that I don't think his boss would be very happy if he knew we were doing coke in there. He quickly corrects me and tells me that his boss loves me and would be really happy that we were hanging out. (Obviously snowboard instructor here doesn't know that his boss actually tried to set me up with his son.)
We walk to the restaurant and it starts to get really cliche. He goes to his locker and gets out the blow. He sets up the lines on the bathroom counter with his credit card. What do we snort it with? A hundred dollar bill of course. I love this shit. From the second I am doing it, I enjoy it. The taste, the slight burn, the smell, I like it all. I do a few lines and feel like I should take a break. I am wired. This instructor informs me that he is really horny. But there is no way I am interested in this guy beyond the coke. But I still feel like making out with him is fair. We make out for a while and it's a lot of fun. Until he starts talking. "You are so beautiful. I want to date you. You are such a good kisser. Ohmygosh I love making out with you." He must be Hilary Duff's oldest fan! He is also thirty-eight. I am really not one to be concerned about his age... but the beautiful and dating shit? Not for me and definitely not sexy. I tell him that I don't want to hear that shit and he immediately starts that sappy, "Come on baby, tell me who hurt you? Who made you like this?" This guy must think I am a Hilary Duff fan too! All I am doing is making out with this guy. I had tequila and coke in me, I couldn't make the decision NOT to make out with him. After this conversation goes on for a few minutes I am bored with what snowboard instructor is saying and the making out. It is time for me to organize.
The restaurant has the place settings up for the next day and they are all complex. Each setting has two glasses, two plates, and dozen pieces of cutlery. I ask the snowboard instructor to take them all off one of the tables and he does. I then spend the next two hours re-setting the table meticulously. Fine tuning the location of each candle, wine glass, and escargot fork was perfect for the high I was experiencing.
After setting the table though, I was bored and wanted to go home. I ask to go home and of course he invites me back to his house. "There is no way, take me home please." He drives me home and I need to go to bed, it's light out and I have been partying for hours. As I try to fall asleep he is still texting me. I put my phone on silent and catch some zzz's.
The next morning I have no plans to but to lay in the sun - it's blue sky and much warmer than Seattle. I get a phone call. SERIOUSLY? I thought I made it clear last night that I already need some space from this guy. Of course he is calling. He asks me how I feel and what I am doing for the day. I tell him that I feel dehydrated but otherwise fine and mention that I am going to the store to pick up some sunscreen. More small talk... and he says that he will call me later because he wants to take me out. I cringe and just tell him that I will talk to him soon. I run into the grocery store and hear my name, at least pronounced correctly and cringe again. It's him! He tells me that he was "just driving by the store and needed to come in and harass me." He succeeded. I am so annoyed with this dude. Does he pick up on any clues?! He told me on the phone that he was at home at the time... he went out of his way to "harass" me at the store. He follows me around watching everything I put in my basket. When he finally decides that it is time for him to leave the store he kisses me on the cheek and says, "See you later babe." Woof. I agree again that we will talk soon, but I already knew that I would be ignoring him for the rest of weekend. He calls me and texts me a few more times in the short time that I am in town and I choose to ignore all of them.
Why would I dare to call this story a triumph? I still had an awesome time. The coke, the partying, the making out... it was still fun. And I learned I don't like thirty-eight year old men with too much chest hair.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Thank You To The Orthodontists Of The World
Triumph
I like to party. When I am experiencing the high of the best social lubricant on the planet, and probably the universe, I am destined to have a good time. Alcohol in general is enjoyable, but beer is fuel when I am partying. One of my favorite ways to drink beers is right out of the pitcher. Call me tacky, but it's efficient and a great conversation starter. Besides, I think like a woman, why get a glass dirty? Some bartenders frown on this, but I have been able to do this multiple times at a bar I frequent that we will call "The Countess." I usually have to be feeling pretty gutsy to even ask, so I am usually a few drinks into the night (or day) when I get my pitcher. On a night when I order a pitcher and no glasses, it's going to be a good time.
There was some kind of game on the televisions in the bars on this specific night. I really couldn't have cared less about the game. I had already spotted the next man I was going to fall in love with. He stood around six feet tall, had brown hair with bright blue eyes, was skinnier than I usually like, but had these perfectly shaped, white, glowing teeth. I'm a sucker for a guy with a good orthodontist. I flash my own pearly whites and he knows that it's time to join my friends and I. I can't do anything but stair at his smile. Within seconds of him sitting down, I tell him that he has, "beautiful teeth." I then ask him how long he had braces and if he does anything to take special care of them. I was impressed by his lack of need to do anything to maintain their greatness. But more importantly turned on by the fact that he had also had enough to drink to not think this conversation was weirder than a Tuesday without tequila! I ask him to make out. And then we make out, a lot. Right there on the bench below one of the TV's with the most important ping pong game of all time playing. There is cheering going on around us. For the fact the he is grabbing my butt? For his beautiful teeth? Maybe the fact that we are really starting to go at it? My guess is anything but the ping pong game.
I need to take this guy home, ASAP. The bar is walking distance from my house, so we start the short trek. There is some intense chemistry; we stop and make out against fences, cars, and street lights. This is really getting good. He seems like he's packing more than a sweet grill.
We get to my house and immediately go to my room. That's when I see how shit faced this guy actually is. He can barely stand on his own two feet by the time we get to my house. There was no chance his soldier was going to stand up. I had to ask him to leave. I was irritated and very let down. He still had his boxers on, but needed to put his shorts back on. When he did so, millions of dollars in change fell on the floor. He must have been paying for all his drink in pennies and nickles. It's crashing and loud and now I really want him to go. This is just getting weird.
Although upset, I am able to fall asleep. I have to get up to work early in the morning anyway. I wake up the next morning and think about how sad it was that grill-boy got away so easily. I walk to the end of the bed and see all the coins on the floor. Obama is the only one I can imagine being satisfied with this amount of change.
I hardly ever make my bed, but because the rest of my room happened to be clean, I thought it would be nice to come home to a made bed that night. I roll back the comforter and what is hiding in my bed? A miniature rubber chicken. It looks like your typical rubber chicken, it just to be the mini-me of a regular rubber chicken. I realize that grill-boy has left this behind. It must have been something he was collecting in his cargo shorts.
I still keep that little rubber chicken. I look at it, smile, and examine my own pearly whites.
I like to party. When I am experiencing the high of the best social lubricant on the planet, and probably the universe, I am destined to have a good time. Alcohol in general is enjoyable, but beer is fuel when I am partying. One of my favorite ways to drink beers is right out of the pitcher. Call me tacky, but it's efficient and a great conversation starter. Besides, I think like a woman, why get a glass dirty? Some bartenders frown on this, but I have been able to do this multiple times at a bar I frequent that we will call "The Countess." I usually have to be feeling pretty gutsy to even ask, so I am usually a few drinks into the night (or day) when I get my pitcher. On a night when I order a pitcher and no glasses, it's going to be a good time.
There was some kind of game on the televisions in the bars on this specific night. I really couldn't have cared less about the game. I had already spotted the next man I was going to fall in love with. He stood around six feet tall, had brown hair with bright blue eyes, was skinnier than I usually like, but had these perfectly shaped, white, glowing teeth. I'm a sucker for a guy with a good orthodontist. I flash my own pearly whites and he knows that it's time to join my friends and I. I can't do anything but stair at his smile. Within seconds of him sitting down, I tell him that he has, "beautiful teeth." I then ask him how long he had braces and if he does anything to take special care of them. I was impressed by his lack of need to do anything to maintain their greatness. But more importantly turned on by the fact that he had also had enough to drink to not think this conversation was weirder than a Tuesday without tequila! I ask him to make out. And then we make out, a lot. Right there on the bench below one of the TV's with the most important ping pong game of all time playing. There is cheering going on around us. For the fact the he is grabbing my butt? For his beautiful teeth? Maybe the fact that we are really starting to go at it? My guess is anything but the ping pong game.
I need to take this guy home, ASAP. The bar is walking distance from my house, so we start the short trek. There is some intense chemistry; we stop and make out against fences, cars, and street lights. This is really getting good. He seems like he's packing more than a sweet grill.
We get to my house and immediately go to my room. That's when I see how shit faced this guy actually is. He can barely stand on his own two feet by the time we get to my house. There was no chance his soldier was going to stand up. I had to ask him to leave. I was irritated and very let down. He still had his boxers on, but needed to put his shorts back on. When he did so, millions of dollars in change fell on the floor. He must have been paying for all his drink in pennies and nickles. It's crashing and loud and now I really want him to go. This is just getting weird.
Although upset, I am able to fall asleep. I have to get up to work early in the morning anyway. I wake up the next morning and think about how sad it was that grill-boy got away so easily. I walk to the end of the bed and see all the coins on the floor. Obama is the only one I can imagine being satisfied with this amount of change.
I hardly ever make my bed, but because the rest of my room happened to be clean, I thought it would be nice to come home to a made bed that night. I roll back the comforter and what is hiding in my bed? A miniature rubber chicken. It looks like your typical rubber chicken, it just to be the mini-me of a regular rubber chicken. I realize that grill-boy has left this behind. It must have been something he was collecting in his cargo shorts.
I still keep that little rubber chicken. I look at it, smile, and examine my own pearly whites.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Fragina
Tragedy
I admit it. I am done feeling guilty about it. It makes me feel good. It makes me happy and more confident... I go tanning. Not under any kind of regular circumstances. Just enough so that I have a "glow" to my skin. And I know a bad tan when I see one, I make sure I never get close to that. Neon orange does nothing for me.
Almost all of the time I go in a bathing suit to maintain appearances (aka tan lines). On this particular day that I felt the need to go tanning, I forgot my bathing suit. I was desperate for my sunless-fix. I needed to get in the tanning bed. I found a compromise. I would just tan naked. I know a lot of other girls who do it, so I couldn't imagine running into a problem. I then tan for eight minutes. These eight minutes were some of the most influential minutes of my life. I get out of the bed and go home and moisturize, like any good tanner would.
The next morning I think I am going to have a regular day. So I start with a warm shower. TERRIBLE IDEA. The area that I will call my "fragina" which is the front of my girl parts is scalding. Scorching. Sizzling. I borderline expect it to be smoking. It is burned to a crisp. This skin that has never seen the light of day has just taken a trip to the sun. I maneuver around in the shower to avoid any water touching my fragina again. Finishing up, I towel off and inspect the victim. She's tomato-red. Not only tomato-red but crisp. The same way your back or shoulders burn, the skin was being stretched when I moved.
I had no choice but to try to go on and continue with my "regular" day. I wore the softest underwear I could and had to deal with the stretching and crispy feeling. This continued on for about three days. Every day getting better, but still a burden.
I thought the worst part was over when the pain finally subsided. The torture was just beginning.
All bad burns heal the same way... By pealing and renewing the skin. I am sure at some point in your life you have burned your back or shoulders before, the process is never pretty...
Eventually, like all other burns, the skin ran its course and eventually stopped pealing. And even turned into a very tan fragina!
I admit it. I am done feeling guilty about it. It makes me feel good. It makes me happy and more confident... I go tanning. Not under any kind of regular circumstances. Just enough so that I have a "glow" to my skin. And I know a bad tan when I see one, I make sure I never get close to that. Neon orange does nothing for me.
Almost all of the time I go in a bathing suit to maintain appearances (aka tan lines). On this particular day that I felt the need to go tanning, I forgot my bathing suit. I was desperate for my sunless-fix. I needed to get in the tanning bed. I found a compromise. I would just tan naked. I know a lot of other girls who do it, so I couldn't imagine running into a problem. I then tan for eight minutes. These eight minutes were some of the most influential minutes of my life. I get out of the bed and go home and moisturize, like any good tanner would.
The next morning I think I am going to have a regular day. So I start with a warm shower. TERRIBLE IDEA. The area that I will call my "fragina" which is the front of my girl parts is scalding. Scorching. Sizzling. I borderline expect it to be smoking. It is burned to a crisp. This skin that has never seen the light of day has just taken a trip to the sun. I maneuver around in the shower to avoid any water touching my fragina again. Finishing up, I towel off and inspect the victim. She's tomato-red. Not only tomato-red but crisp. The same way your back or shoulders burn, the skin was being stretched when I moved.
I had no choice but to try to go on and continue with my "regular" day. I wore the softest underwear I could and had to deal with the stretching and crispy feeling. This continued on for about three days. Every day getting better, but still a burden.
I thought the worst part was over when the pain finally subsided. The torture was just beginning.
All bad burns heal the same way... By pealing and renewing the skin. I am sure at some point in your life you have burned your back or shoulders before, the process is never pretty...
Eventually, like all other burns, the skin ran its course and eventually stopped pealing. And even turned into a very tan fragina!
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