planes and corvettes and old, dirty men.

June 30, 2010

i was young and stupid once, like most twenty-something single girls. i was also fairly marinated with the devil’s juice during that time of my life. that’s what happens when you hate your job and feel certain it is a situation only made better when you carry a constant buzz. looking back on this perpetual drunken haze i used to stumble around in, i can say that not only does your liver tend to suffer, but, so does that little piece of you that helps you say the word, “NO.”

once upon a time, i had a brief, ridiculous fling with an older dude. what? he was hot. very charming personality with a set of washboard abs makes it hard for one to continue to avoid such a creature’s advances for too long, ya know. one day, the older dude decided he couldn’t keep up with this constant drink-a-thon i insisted on participating in, and…he dumped me. no surprise there. this is an important piece of information to know, because it leads to how i get to know the dirty old man, who we’ll call hillbilly.

my friend jane and i would frequent the same bars over and over in our small, suburban hellhole of a town. one night, after just two drinks, in walks my hot older dude who had just dumped me a week before, and one of his hillbilly looking friends, who, i might add, was one of the shortest grown men i had ever seen that wasn’t a documented “little” person. so, what do i do? that’s right, i get so drunk that i somehow manage to convince my ex-lover to give me a ride home. however, once we get out to his car, he insists that his short, hillbilly friend take me home instead. i can’t remember the reason why, but i’m pretty sure it was so i wouldn’t try to shack up with ex-dude. i was pawned off on old, short, corvette, mid-life crisis havin’ hillbilly. grrreat.

i get into hillbilly’s car and, while the world is spinning around me, i manage to direct him straight to my parents’ house, which is where i resided right after college when it was impossible to live on my own. before i get out of the car, i apparently tell hillbilly i’d be happy to hang out with him the next night. i don’t remember this until i wake up the next morning with my head in the toilet trying to piece together how i got home, where my car was, and what day it was. being the sweet, southern girl i am, i couldn’t back out on hillbilly, so i called jane and told her to be at our bar at around 4:30…i had a plan. i was going to get hillbilly to take me there, i was going to hang out with jane, and she would take me home. easy, right? of course not. it never is.

instead, hillbilly picks me up at my house (in his redneck-mobile corvette) and tells me he’s taking me to the bar, yet he gets on the interstate and heads toward alabama, a place i would never voluntarily go. i’m baffled as to why we are not anywhere near the bar. he says, “we’re going to meet up with some of my friends later in the town i live in (which is almost in alabama).” awesome, so glad i knew this before i got in the car, jackass. anyway, he hands me a beer. he was nice enough to ice down a 12-pack before picking me up. as we’re driving, and i’m pounding beer as fast as i can to try and blur my life as quickly as possible, hillbilly tells me he has a fun surprise for me. i’m terrified at what this could be.

we pull off the interstate and into…an airfield. yeah, with planes and shit. apparently, hillbilly is a pilot, and he has his own little plane. aw, how cute. he’s going to show me how much money he has! except that entails me getting into the plane and letting him fly me around for an entire hour!!!!! i hardly know this guy! and, i’m in a plane with him. a small one. and we are drinking beer. and i feel like i might just jump out so this “date” can be over with. luckily, we landed safely, even after he let me take the control for a solid minute.

back inside the ‘vette of love, we head off to a gas station where all hillbilly’s friends are waiting on us. they’re my age. hillbilly is in his mid-40s. why on earth are twenty-somethings friends with this guy?! they inform me that the plan for the night is to drive two hours south of where we are to a country dance club to see a band play. i freaking hate country music. and, i hate anyplace south of where i currently am. in fact, i hate anywhere that isn’t my house at this point. i just want to go hommmmme! i sit in the ‘vette for two hours, still drinking beers and smoking cigarettes like it’s my job. longest. car. ride. ever. hillbilly just wants to talk to me. we really have nothing to talk about because he is an old, dirty man with a plane, and i’m a twenty-three year old chick who can’t afford rent.

we finally get to this terrible club. all i remember is that the word ‘lizard’ was in the name of it. or, was it ‘frog?’ either way, it was some kind of creepy crawly, which is what hillbilly was to me. things are fuzzy while we’re at the club, but i do remember my 5’7 frame (with heels, so really, 5’9 or so) had to slow dance with hillbilly, who is probably 5’2. i’m sure he loved that his head was just even with my breasticles. looooved it. he keeps trying to reach up and kiss me, and i am fortunately so drunk, i can barely keep my balance, so holding me still is like trying to pin a pig in a pen. luckily for me, this band finally stopped playing, and i was going to be able to head home! yes! right?! nooooo, not quite.

i’m at the mercy of hillbilly because i am hammered, and i have no car, or money, and i’m two hours from home. he decides we should shack up at one of his young friends’ aunt’s house for the night with the rest of the crew. i didn’t really have a say in it. awesome. we get to the house, and everyone is sleeping on the floor in sleeping bags. i think this is a good thing. hillbilly can’t try to round any bases with me in a room full of people! i’m in the clear! that is, until hillbilly’s friend informs us that, “since you guys are the only couple, you can have the bedroom. see you in the morning!” eff. eff. eff. EFF!

i hesitantly go into the room with hillbilly. i’m disgusted at the thought that i will have to sleep in the same bed as this guy. even trying to type this, i’m choking back the vomit that seems to have formed in my throat. hillbilly strips down to his boxers…ugh. i keep all my clothes on. well, i take my shoes off; the heels are killing me. he tries very hard to get me to undress, but i will not do it. he finally gives up and i’m able to go to sleep after a few slaps of his fresh hands trying to feel me up. i wake in the morning to find his morning wood pressed against my leg. he’s breathing heavily in my ear as if i’m going to just wake up and do him. instead, i quickly hop out of the bed and let him know i have got to go home right this second! hillbilly needs to “freshen up” before we make the two hour drive back to civilization.

this is where i vow to possibly never drink again, but most definitely, to never talk to men more than ten years my senior: hillbilly comes out of the bathroom with his lurking boner and says, “are you sure you don’t want to take your clothes off? i’ve got the best c*ck in the world.”

BARF. i actually had to swallow some of the last night’s dinner before i could laugh in his face for such a terrible last ditch effort to get some poon. i politely declined, and he finally directed me to the car. two hours later, after a very deafening ride, i was home. i slept all day and had nightmares about hillbilly’s comment, on top of the night in general. he called and called the next day, and i just ignored him until he finally stopped…three months later.

let this be a lesson to anyone like myself. stay away from dirty, old men with planes. and corvettes. but, especially planes.

Every Guy Ever.

March 31, 2008

Once, my sister sent me this email forward she got from a male friend entitled, “Every Girl Ever.” I laughed my ass off. It’s just too funny, as it’s clearly written from a male perspective. In response, I decided to make my own, called, “Every Guy Ever.” Yes, I wrote this myself. Yes, it’s happened to me before, as I’m sure it has happened to many ladies before me, and after me. I was a young and inexperienced dater when I thought dates were like this. Now, I can proudly say that I can spot one of these doucheass species from a mile away.

*knock knock* 

Hey, it’s me, Every Guy Ever. I’m here to take you on our date. I’m not nearly as personable and funny as you remember me being at the bar last weekend because I haven’t had my regimen of Jager Bombs and Red Bull and vodka doubles yet. Why don’t you show me your place so I can take notes on how I’m going to woo your pants off later? I see you like magazines about sex and make-up. Guess that makes you a tiger in the bedroom, huh?! 

Do you mind if I use your bathroom before we hit the road? I want to look through your mirror cabinet to make sure there’s no Valtrex in there. I also want to check my hair one last time before we go to this really expensive dinner I’m going to buy you so I can justify trying to get you out of your pants later on. Daddy’s not laying down a Benji for nothin’! 

Here, let me get the car door for you. I’m sure you’ll remember this gesture and what a gentleman I am later on when I’m shooting to get my hand up your shirt. Really, I’m just staring at your ass as you slide into my dad’s, I mean, my Mercedes. Are you cold? The seats are heated. Want me to turn them on? What? I can’t hear you over this really horrible, female-degrading rap that I have blasting through the speakers. I want to make sure everyone in your neighboorhood can hear it.  

Well, here we are at this overpriced trendy restaurant where I have to valet the Mercedes and it’s so loud we won’t be able to hear each other talk. I’m not really interested in your life anyway. I’m just trying to figure out the best way to get you drunk and naked.

Did I mention this place has $5.00 martinis? Why don’t you have a couple while I try to come up with an interesting and hilarious story about my fraternity brothers from college and the things we used to do the pledges? I know that stories like these make my penis seem much bigger than it really is.  

Do you want dessert? I was thinking we could go to a really crowded club where they play trance music and I can show you my killer dance moves. Then I can rub my crotch all over your leg to show you what I’m packing. Sorry, I get a little excited when I hear 50 Cent. Watch your head! I just have to raise my hands in the air while I sing “bottle full of bubbly.” It reminds me of college. You want a Jager Bomb? I’ll get four. And a couple of Red Bull and vodkas. Are you drunk yet? 

What? You’re ready to go home? That’s cool. I just want to let you know that I’m really drunk, so we should take a cab back to your place. I can crash on your couch (wink, wink). Although, I’m going to insist I sleep in the bed with you, and then I’m going to get really angry when you refuse to let me touch you after I spent all that money on you and got you really drunk.

My favorite part is the awkward moment the next morning when you wake up next to me and remember I suck and that you have to drive me to my car since we cabbed it to your place, where I played on your sweet innocence to get some cheap cuddling since you wouldn’t let me have the ass.  

Thanks for the ride to my dad’s car. I’m going to tell you I’m going to call you again, but I won’t because you didn’t put out and I don’t think you’re worth it.  

Leggings, and Bodysuits, and Hot Pants, Oh My!

January 11, 2008

bodysuits.jpgI read something today that reminded me of a conversation I had earlier this week about a subject that I am really not qualified to weigh in on since I am just not cool enough. I bought my boyfriend some t-shirts from American Apparel for Christmas because he really likes them and I’m a nice person. I went to the store by my apartment, in a neighborhood so close to where I lay my head at night that I can actually walk there. (This is to make the point that I live close enough, meaning, I have a right to shop there.)

I guess I missed the memo somewhere down the line that says you can’t have a professional job, dress somewhat comfortable and preppy on a regular basis, AND shop at American Apparel all at the same time. It’s simply not allowed in the hipster culture. Since when do you have to have a “cool card” to shop for plain t-shirts? Who made up this rule that unless you’re an underachieving slacker, you’re not allowed to step foot into a store that sells overpriced clothes without being looked at like you don’t belong? I want to slap that person in the face.

I also want to tell their fashion buyer people that despite their efforts to force the female population to retreat so far back to the 80s that they’re stepping out in metallic leggings worn under a strapless bodysuit with hot pants, the consensus on the street with everyone who isn’t under the influence of drugs and really horrible noise that some people call “music” is that we will be sticking to the re-emergence of grunge style over disco and Jazzercise apparel.

I was given a catalog to look at when I was buying my presents, and when I got home to flip through it, I was a little put off by the display of women wearing all those really odd looking clothes. Even more, the pictures of men with porn ‘staches posing in their underwear wasn’t really turning me on, either. Both the men and women look like they’re strung out on the big H and that they just got back from an STD infested orgy. It’s…gross.

I only have one question regarding this hot topic: Who wears this stuff??!!

leggings.png

Things That Poop.

December 6, 2007

I have always said that any kind of joke dealing with poop is funny. It is. I thrive on finding gag gifts for my loved ones that revolve around poop. One of my favorite websites back in the day was Doodie.com. I don’t know why, I just like stories, jokes, and anything else that involves poop. 

All of my friends know this. So yesterday I’m sitting at the jobby job and I get a text from my pal that she just saw a toy polar bear that poops brown jelly beans. I’m almost in disbelief because I cannot believe such a thing exists and that I don’t already know about it. I’m also touched that her other comment was that she instantly thought of me when she saw the pooping polar bear. I tell my boyfriend about this toy and he bursts my bubble by telling me he’s already seen it, and that he heard there was also some kind of pooping penguin that he really wanted, because, and don’t ask why, he seems to think he is much like a penguin. And we talk about shit on occasion. So, of course, being the person I am, I have to research all of the above.

I find out that the pooping polar bear and penguin both exist through a website I stumbled upon, although I have already been assured that these toys are available at my local Rite Aid store. I am determined to seek out these candy dispensers so I can bring joy to my boyfriend and to my sister, who also thinks poop is hilarious, mainly because she poops probably six or seven times a day. Seriously. I hit Rite Aid after work and find the bear and the penguin and purchase both, wondering what the lady ringing me up is thinking to herself about my choice in products. I immediately take the penguin to the boyfriend, who seems overly excited about his wind-up pooping penguin. I call my mother and tell her I’ve secured the most perfect stocking stuffer for my sister . . . the Sub-Zero Poopin’ Hero Poo-lar Bear. She has already been notified by my sister via email that this is the most fantastic gift anyone could get her, and she is so happy that I’ve done the dirty work for her in actually finding it and spending an entire $2.99 to put a smile on my sibling’s face.

I’ve decided that I may have to go back and get more of these insanely inappropriate pooping dispensers because everyone in my life seems to think they’re amazing. Who would’ve known that plastic animals that poop candy would be such a hit this holiday season?

Pooping Polar Bear

Pooping Penguin

Santa's gotta poop, too.

Pimentos Need Love, Too.

December 4, 2007

Call me trashy, but I love, love, lurve pimento cheese! It’s everything I could want, all rolled into one, usually plastic, container with red and black retro writing on it. It’s trailer park picnics at their best. It’s the perfect complement to pork rinds (although, that is just one of the trashy foodstuffs I cannot ingest . . . but please make sure you bring extra corndogs to suffice). It’s been good to you! It’s pimento cheese.

Growing up, my mother would not allow us to have junk food. McDonald’s was saved for those special times when we had a babysitter on a Friday night, or for after the softball game where I played exceptionally well. Even Cokes were saved for the weekends only. Which is completely ironic now that I’m an adult and that same “junk food” now pays my bills. Go figure. My point is, I never even knew what pimento cheese was until college. This may seem funny to you, but it is absolutely true. I basically grew up in the south and never came across pimento cheese. I’m not sure if it was the sheltered pantry my mother kept, or if it’s because I wasn’t interested in spreads on breads.

However, when I discovered this backyard delicacy, I immediately fell in love. Oh, the joy of cheese and whatever it is that makes it clump together like that was beyond anything measurable. I yearned for the trips to Wal-Mart where I could marvel at the vast variety of pimento cheese brands and flavors. I never dared buy them, though, because apparently, pimento cheese is not everyone’s favorite spread. In fact, most people look down upon it. I really didn’t care to have Sorority Sally shifting her eyes in my direction and throwing me one of those “that’s going straight to your thighs, buttercup” looks at me as I pick up the southern-style pimento cheese bucket from the dairy section. (And Sorority Sally can shoot me that look . . . she’s buying soy milk, like I should be doing.)

Even now, as a well-educated and tasteful adult, my love for pimento cheese has not wavered, and now the deli workers in my office building murmur to each other anytime I step up and ask for pimento cheese with tomato. Yes, I can tell that I’m the only one who actually orders the pimento cheese since when I get to it, it’s been sitting in it’s container, and has obviously been untouched during the daily lunch rush hour. But I want it. And I’ll take the ridicule. And to think, I was under the impression that I was giving the deli guy a break from the normal smoked turkey and ham with my scoop of pimento cheese.