When I was 17, my "boyfriend" (notice the quotation marks, please) waited for me to leave the room and asked Missmo for her phone number and suggested they hang out sometime sans me. Of course, Missmo immediately alerted me to the fact that I was dealing with a douchebag and that was the end of that. Because that, my friends, is a line that is never to be crossed. Lord hath mercy on he who crosseth that line.
It's not crossed very often, save for the few poor slobs who seriously think that there is a real possibility that Missmo and I are closeted lesbians, or worse, girls who kiss girls for attention, and have the audacity to seriously suggest a threesome. In the ten years that we've been friends, however, we've learned to shake that off. I mean, she's a good looking girl, and some like to say that I am as well. As they say, hate the game, not the player.
Recently, though, that line was crossed again by a guy down home with whom I made out like a year ago. We ran into him again at Benny's over Christmas vacation, and as is always the case, we threw a little afterparty at Missmo's place with a few of our friends. We invited him along for old time's sake, for him to promptly pass out sitting up in Missmo's chair, baseball cap and sneakers on and everything. Figuring that this was a good sign that he was too intoxicated to drive home, we left him to sleep it off, and when everybody else left, we went to bed and slept it off ourselves.
Now, anybody who is or knows a girl knows that girls have no problem sleeping in the same bed together. I even know some heterosexual men who have no problem sleeping in the same bed together, but I won't go there. I don't see really what the big deal is. When we woke up in the morning, the dude was gone, but he wasted no time sending us a text message (to Missmo's phone because mine was dead) that went like this:
"Hey - were you guys sleeping in the same bed last night? I should have jumped in between you guys."
Wha?
Not yet sure of the level of creepiness this text achieved, I responded sarcastically:
"Naw, then you would have interrupted our spooning and we would have been unhappy."
To which he responded:
"I wouldn't have interrupted! I luv spooning! Especially with two girls who are bringing sexy back!"
To which there was absolutely no response. "Luv?" "Sexy back?" For real?????? I wrote him off as a tool, and that was that.
Christmas vacation ended, and I went home. Missmo saw him out a couple weeks later, and being the polite and cordial girl that she is, said hello. We figured there was no harm in being friendly, so she would chat him up when she saw him out and we thought nothing of it.
That is, until one day, she received this text message:
"Anybody up for a mustache ride?"
Wha??? Is this even for real???? WHO SAYS THAT????
Needless to say, that was the line, he totally crossed it, and she hasn't seen or heard from him since. However, the text did land him a spot in the elite group of men that I will blog about, those who are such douches that I have no shame blathering their business to the internet.
So there you go. Another douchebag story. About a guy who once asked my best friend if she was up for a "mustache ride."
Showing posts with label storytelling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label storytelling. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Wednesday, November 1, 2006
trick? or treat?
So I volunteered for this Halloween street festival last night called "Hilloween." A realtor whose office is next door to the restaurant I work at on weekends puts it on every year, and there's a hay ride and balloon animals and face painting for the kids, and burgers and beer for the adults. I was selected to be a face painter (for God knows what reason because I can barely draw a stick figure) and I had to dress up in my fairy costume.
It is the fairy costume part that should earn me a medal. I hadn't really put much thought into how I was going to get to Hilloween, that is, until I was in my fairy costume, wings, wand, knee-high boots, face glitter and everything, looking at myself in the mirror when I was like "Am I seriously going walk down H Street and wait for the bus like this?" (H Street is supposed to be an "up and coming" neighborhood. I once told this to somebody, and that person responded by saying it was more coming than up. I have to agree with that statement.) I figured I had to, because how was I going to volunteer for something and then not show? So, ladies and gentlemen, I ponied up and waited for the bus on H Street dressed as a fairy. It was the most uncomfortable experience in my life. This is my favorite exchange that I had on the street:
Man: Damn, you lookin good.
Me: It's Halloween.
Man: You the trick or the treat?
At this point, I had to remind myself that I was doin' it for the kids, doin' it for the kids.
And it was well worth it. Face painting was so fun, although I was sooooo bad at it. My pumpkins looked more like squash, and my spiders looked like flies. I felt kinda guilty about that, remembering a time when I was like ten and I got my face painted and it looked like shit and I was so upset. However, if any of the kids last night were pissed about my unskilled designs, they didn't show it. On the other hand, I could tell some of the parents were expecting me to bust out with some skills and were sorely disappointed. One even told me "I guess you get what you pay for." (The face painting was free.)
But the little kids were just so cute in their little costumes, most of them too young to even talk. There was one little girl who couldn't say a single word that I could understand, but she was sure having a whole conversation with me. It was the cutest! And then there were the brain eating zombies, the mermaids, so many princesses!, the pumpkins, the doggies, the kitties, and one Spongebob Square Pants.
All of them were giddy with that Halloween magic that only children experience, and I even got a little high off of their highs. It reminded me of when I was little, when I would get elated at the sight of a Halloween decoration, when a plastic pumpkin filled with Baby Ruths and Sweetarts and Snickers was all I ever needed, when the possibility that my neighborhood was really haunted by ghosts who appeared only on Halloween seemed quite real. I would plan months and months in advance what I was going to be for Halloween, and the costume had to be perfect. It was my goal in life to win a costume contest. That never happened, although I remember in second grade, I won a pumpkin decorating contest. I remember they said my name, and I was so excited that afterwards, I actually looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and told myself "You did it." Hey – it was a school-wide contest and that's a big accomplishment for an 8-year-old.
Anyway, last night I got as close to feeling that magic again as I ever will be. It was the first time I had participated in Halloween festivities since I was a kid, unless of course you count the law school Halloween party last year, which was basically nothing but a beer fest and my costume was The Guess Who's classic ballad "American Woman," which was comprised of a denim skirt, silver platforms, a white t-shirt, a red feather boa, blue eye shadow, and piece of strategically-placed masking tape which said "American Woman." The only magic that was involved that night was law school colleagues magically finding each other attractive after a few drinks.
It is the fairy costume part that should earn me a medal. I hadn't really put much thought into how I was going to get to Hilloween, that is, until I was in my fairy costume, wings, wand, knee-high boots, face glitter and everything, looking at myself in the mirror when I was like "Am I seriously going walk down H Street and wait for the bus like this?" (H Street is supposed to be an "up and coming" neighborhood. I once told this to somebody, and that person responded by saying it was more coming than up. I have to agree with that statement.) I figured I had to, because how was I going to volunteer for something and then not show? So, ladies and gentlemen, I ponied up and waited for the bus on H Street dressed as a fairy. It was the most uncomfortable experience in my life. This is my favorite exchange that I had on the street:
Man: Damn, you lookin good.
Me: It's Halloween.
Man: You the trick or the treat?
At this point, I had to remind myself that I was doin' it for the kids, doin' it for the kids.
And it was well worth it. Face painting was so fun, although I was sooooo bad at it. My pumpkins looked more like squash, and my spiders looked like flies. I felt kinda guilty about that, remembering a time when I was like ten and I got my face painted and it looked like shit and I was so upset. However, if any of the kids last night were pissed about my unskilled designs, they didn't show it. On the other hand, I could tell some of the parents were expecting me to bust out with some skills and were sorely disappointed. One even told me "I guess you get what you pay for." (The face painting was free.)
But the little kids were just so cute in their little costumes, most of them too young to even talk. There was one little girl who couldn't say a single word that I could understand, but she was sure having a whole conversation with me. It was the cutest! And then there were the brain eating zombies, the mermaids, so many princesses!, the pumpkins, the doggies, the kitties, and one Spongebob Square Pants.
All of them were giddy with that Halloween magic that only children experience, and I even got a little high off of their highs. It reminded me of when I was little, when I would get elated at the sight of a Halloween decoration, when a plastic pumpkin filled with Baby Ruths and Sweetarts and Snickers was all I ever needed, when the possibility that my neighborhood was really haunted by ghosts who appeared only on Halloween seemed quite real. I would plan months and months in advance what I was going to be for Halloween, and the costume had to be perfect. It was my goal in life to win a costume contest. That never happened, although I remember in second grade, I won a pumpkin decorating contest. I remember they said my name, and I was so excited that afterwards, I actually looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and told myself "You did it." Hey – it was a school-wide contest and that's a big accomplishment for an 8-year-old.
Anyway, last night I got as close to feeling that magic again as I ever will be. It was the first time I had participated in Halloween festivities since I was a kid, unless of course you count the law school Halloween party last year, which was basically nothing but a beer fest and my costume was The Guess Who's classic ballad "American Woman," which was comprised of a denim skirt, silver platforms, a white t-shirt, a red feather boa, blue eye shadow, and piece of strategically-placed masking tape which said "American Woman." The only magic that was involved that night was law school colleagues magically finding each other attractive after a few drinks.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
can it be that it was all so simple then
I was recently asked what my favorite memory was. Okay, it was in one of those myspace survey things, and it was one somebody else filled out, so in actuality, I wasn't asked anything, but it got me thinking. What is my favorite memory?
It didn't take very much thinking at all. Always, forever and ever, for the rest of my life, my very favorite memory ever will be my 18th birthday. I imagine that even after I'm married at Cesar's Palace in Vegas where I will fly all my closest friends for a weekend-long boozed-up celebration of me and my perfect, funny, smart, beefy, fun, wonderfully charming and manly husband, and even after I have curly-haired, well-behaved children for whom I will throw big extravagant birthday parties complete with ponies and clowns in the backyard of my beautiful four-bedroom home which will be painted white with blue shutters and have a lilac tree in the front, I will still think of my 18th birthday as my very favorite memory EVER.
Guess who this memory stars? Yes, that's right. Missmo and Am and that's it. No guest stars. Except maybe Bertha, Missmo's 1989 Mustang convertible with the black rag top. We'll never forget that beast. We drove it down to South Beach, where we stayed at the Breakwater Hotel, with NO PARENTS. Just me, Missmo, my sexy black and white leopard print XOXO dress (which I still have, by the way), and Missmo's knee-high white leather go-go boots. Except about a week before our departure, Bertha started acting like a pubescent teenage girl and would just completely shut off whenever she felt like it. It didn't matter if we were on I-75 going 89 miles per hour or in the Taco Bell parking lot at 1 a.m. She'd just shut off.
So Missmo brought Bertha to the mechanic a few days before we left, who said that there was nothing wrong with her and we'd be fine to take her to South Beach. We trusted this mechanic, oh naïve teenage girls that we were, plus to have anybody tell us that our Super Duper Parent-Free Birthday Weekend at the Coolest Place on Earth would have to be cancelled would be the Worst Thing that Ever Happened, so we gladly took his advice.
So we're on Highway 1, bumping the DJ Clue and Puff Daddy (back when he was Puff Daddy) mixed tape (which Missmo still has, by the way), totally oblivious to the fact that we were totally going the wrong way when Bertha shut off. Luckily, however, out of nowhere, there was like a little spot where you could pull off the highway. In the miles and miles of Highway 1 that we had theretofore traveled, there was not one spot to pull off. It was a miracle, I say!
So we're sitting there on the side of Highway 1, no idea what to do, visions of sipping Malibu and Pineapple (because that was our drink back then) at Liquid dancing through our heads, when all of the sudden a tow truck pulls up behind us. So we're all "Yes, we're saved!" We get in the truck, the dude puts Bertha on the back, and we're on our way to South Beach!
Now, mind you, the Breakwater is on Ocean Ave (more about the Breakwater later). So we're on our way, butterflies in our stomachs, when all of the sudden it hits us. We're about to be TOWED ONTO SOUTH BEACH. Better yet, we're about to be TOWED ONTO OCEAN AVE. The humiliation was overwhelming. We were both near tears as we pulled off of Collins and onto Ocean. We begged, PLEADED with the tow truck driver, couldn't he drop us somewhere else or at least give us a discount since it was my birthday and all? He wasn't having any of it.
So sure enough, we pulled up in front of the Breakwater, and the valet guys had to actually valet park the car from off of the tow truck. Missmo and I ran into the lobby of the hotel as fast as we could so that nobody could identify us as the owners of the First Car Ever to be Towed onto South Beach and Valet Parked off of the Tow Truck.
Now, let me tell you about the Breakwater. It's classic South Beach. Missmo and I swore there would be house music in the lobby and a pool on the roof. We envisioned young, studly Cuban bellhops who would offer us champagne and strawberries when we arrived and accompany us to the clubs at night.
Not so, my friends. First, we were disappointed to learn that there was no pool; however, if we were ever on the beach and needed to take a shower, we could do so there for a mere $5, just like the European tourists standing next to us had done. Okay, we figured at least the rooms would be nice, and maybe there was still hope for the hot Cuban bellhops. Well, the bellhops never arrived with the champagne, and once we got to the room, we were appalled to find lots of polyester and bright blues and yellows. To top it all off, the toilet didn't flush.
So you might ask, "THIS is your favorite memory?" Yes. That weekend was the most fun I've ever had in my entire life. We hit Cameo before it was Crowbar and Prince's old club, and we had no problem getting served, which is a huge deal to 18-year-olds. We witnessed our first major bar fight, in response to which Missmo actually threw me on the floor and herself on top of me. We met our very first drag queens, and we saw topless dancing girls kissing on the balcony of a non-strip club for the first time. (I distinctly remember looking at Missmo and both of us screaming "Eeeew!" at the same time and turning to the boy I was talking to asking "Do you like that? Would you like to see your sister up there doing that?" Oh, so naïve I was back then.)
It was a rite of passage. We were never the same after that. We were no longer the teenage girls who sat out on my mom's lanai smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap ABC liquor. We were the party girls who partied like rock stars on South Beach. After that, we were there every other weekend. There was a new outfit for each trip. We switched to a different hotel, where we made friends with the manager (MISSMO!! WHAT WAS HIS NAME?!?!?!), and we went to Cameo often enough to know we HATED that stupid bouncer with those gay-ass tinted sunglasses. Some people had freshman year of college; Missmo and I had freshman year of the University of South Beach, and I've got ten bucks that says it was better than any frat party.
Ahhh…those were the days…
It didn't take very much thinking at all. Always, forever and ever, for the rest of my life, my very favorite memory ever will be my 18th birthday. I imagine that even after I'm married at Cesar's Palace in Vegas where I will fly all my closest friends for a weekend-long boozed-up celebration of me and my perfect, funny, smart, beefy, fun, wonderfully charming and manly husband, and even after I have curly-haired, well-behaved children for whom I will throw big extravagant birthday parties complete with ponies and clowns in the backyard of my beautiful four-bedroom home which will be painted white with blue shutters and have a lilac tree in the front, I will still think of my 18th birthday as my very favorite memory EVER.
Guess who this memory stars? Yes, that's right. Missmo and Am and that's it. No guest stars. Except maybe Bertha, Missmo's 1989 Mustang convertible with the black rag top. We'll never forget that beast. We drove it down to South Beach, where we stayed at the Breakwater Hotel, with NO PARENTS. Just me, Missmo, my sexy black and white leopard print XOXO dress (which I still have, by the way), and Missmo's knee-high white leather go-go boots. Except about a week before our departure, Bertha started acting like a pubescent teenage girl and would just completely shut off whenever she felt like it. It didn't matter if we were on I-75 going 89 miles per hour or in the Taco Bell parking lot at 1 a.m. She'd just shut off.
So Missmo brought Bertha to the mechanic a few days before we left, who said that there was nothing wrong with her and we'd be fine to take her to South Beach. We trusted this mechanic, oh naïve teenage girls that we were, plus to have anybody tell us that our Super Duper Parent-Free Birthday Weekend at the Coolest Place on Earth would have to be cancelled would be the Worst Thing that Ever Happened, so we gladly took his advice.
So we're on Highway 1, bumping the DJ Clue and Puff Daddy (back when he was Puff Daddy) mixed tape (which Missmo still has, by the way), totally oblivious to the fact that we were totally going the wrong way when Bertha shut off. Luckily, however, out of nowhere, there was like a little spot where you could pull off the highway. In the miles and miles of Highway 1 that we had theretofore traveled, there was not one spot to pull off. It was a miracle, I say!
So we're sitting there on the side of Highway 1, no idea what to do, visions of sipping Malibu and Pineapple (because that was our drink back then) at Liquid dancing through our heads, when all of the sudden a tow truck pulls up behind us. So we're all "Yes, we're saved!" We get in the truck, the dude puts Bertha on the back, and we're on our way to South Beach!
Now, mind you, the Breakwater is on Ocean Ave (more about the Breakwater later). So we're on our way, butterflies in our stomachs, when all of the sudden it hits us. We're about to be TOWED ONTO SOUTH BEACH. Better yet, we're about to be TOWED ONTO OCEAN AVE. The humiliation was overwhelming. We were both near tears as we pulled off of Collins and onto Ocean. We begged, PLEADED with the tow truck driver, couldn't he drop us somewhere else or at least give us a discount since it was my birthday and all? He wasn't having any of it.
So sure enough, we pulled up in front of the Breakwater, and the valet guys had to actually valet park the car from off of the tow truck. Missmo and I ran into the lobby of the hotel as fast as we could so that nobody could identify us as the owners of the First Car Ever to be Towed onto South Beach and Valet Parked off of the Tow Truck.
Now, let me tell you about the Breakwater. It's classic South Beach. Missmo and I swore there would be house music in the lobby and a pool on the roof. We envisioned young, studly Cuban bellhops who would offer us champagne and strawberries when we arrived and accompany us to the clubs at night.
Not so, my friends. First, we were disappointed to learn that there was no pool; however, if we were ever on the beach and needed to take a shower, we could do so there for a mere $5, just like the European tourists standing next to us had done. Okay, we figured at least the rooms would be nice, and maybe there was still hope for the hot Cuban bellhops. Well, the bellhops never arrived with the champagne, and once we got to the room, we were appalled to find lots of polyester and bright blues and yellows. To top it all off, the toilet didn't flush.
So you might ask, "THIS is your favorite memory?" Yes. That weekend was the most fun I've ever had in my entire life. We hit Cameo before it was Crowbar and Prince's old club, and we had no problem getting served, which is a huge deal to 18-year-olds. We witnessed our first major bar fight, in response to which Missmo actually threw me on the floor and herself on top of me. We met our very first drag queens, and we saw topless dancing girls kissing on the balcony of a non-strip club for the first time. (I distinctly remember looking at Missmo and both of us screaming "Eeeew!" at the same time and turning to the boy I was talking to asking "Do you like that? Would you like to see your sister up there doing that?" Oh, so naïve I was back then.)
It was a rite of passage. We were never the same after that. We were no longer the teenage girls who sat out on my mom's lanai smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap ABC liquor. We were the party girls who partied like rock stars on South Beach. After that, we were there every other weekend. There was a new outfit for each trip. We switched to a different hotel, where we made friends with the manager (MISSMO!! WHAT WAS HIS NAME?!?!?!), and we went to Cameo often enough to know we HATED that stupid bouncer with those gay-ass tinted sunglasses. Some people had freshman year of college; Missmo and I had freshman year of the University of South Beach, and I've got ten bucks that says it was better than any frat party.
Ahhh…those were the days…
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