I had my mom in town for Thanksgiving again this year. I love her to death but it's hard living together for extended periods. Mom went back home on Saturday afternoon, which worked out well because I had a date with ME that night, then one with Bartender Sunday afternoon, both of which went well.
Before I get into the dates I'll give you a little glimpse of what my life is like when Mom is in town. There isn't one major thing she does that aggravates me, it's more like one hundred little things that slowly chip away at me until my last filament of sanity is gone and I'm left wandering around my neighborhood with the dog in the wee hours of the morning like a raving lunatic.
What does she do to get to me? An example is that I have a tenant that lives below me, and as a courtesy I try to be quiet in the morning until at least 10am. I don't know if my tenant sleeps in or not, I simply do it out of respect. Not Mom, though. As soon as she gets up she's thumping around my house, banging dishes, and yelling to me from four rooms away "Are you in the bathroom? Where do you keep your can opener?". Then when I don't answer she yells it even louder. No matter how many times I tell her "Mom, you need to keep it down, it's 7:30am, my tenant is sleeping and she pays my mortgage!" she completely forgets the next morning and we start all over again with the thumping and yelling.
She is constantly searching for the "News" on TV. I forget that old people still get their "news" by watching it for hours on TV insteading of reading it online. She'll say "Where's your news", which is obviously a very confusing statement if you look at it literally. However, I know that's code for "On which station can I watch your local idiots babble on about how early some fuck-nut got in line at Target to save thirteen cents on the black-Friday-toy-du-jour this year". Then, no matter which station I put on it's not right. CNBC, CNN, NBC, Fox, ABC, none of these are what she's looking for. I finally have to say "Channels 4-115 come in on my TV, click through and see if you can find something you like." Then she inevitably fucks up my remote control and erases all the programming. Serenity now, serenity now!
The other thing Mom does that drives me bananas is what my sister and I refer to as "Price Check". If we have to make a purchase, regardless of whether it's a tank of gas or a pound of coffee, Mom likes to point out how much more expensive DC is than Home. She'll say "Seven ninety-nine for a can of coffee? That's awful, I can get the same kind at Home for three ninety-nine. Next time you're Home you should buy it and bring it back to DC with you." Multiply that statement times the number of items you consume in an average day and see if you don't want to step in front of the next oncoming bus. I get it, things are cheaper Home, but do I really want to get involved in coffee arbitrage to save a few bucks a month? What's the point of all this, stop bringing it up, please, for the love of god.
OK, I feel better that I got that off my chest, on to the dates.
Saturday night I had drinks and dinner with ME. We met up at 8pm and she looked really nice. She had on tight jeans, tall leather boots, a tight shirt/sweater, another sweater over that, and a scarf. She was even prettier than I remembered. She has this jet black hair, dark eyes, and something that I've never noticed on any girl before: really "plump" lips. She looks a lot like the Victoria Secret model Adriana Lima except with dark eyes.
I had done my homework before the date and researched her country. My geography is horrible, so I made sure I knew what countries her homeland bordered, as well as some key figures and general history, which I think I got extra credit for.
Conversation was easy and she told me a lot of very personal things that I thought was unusual for a first date. Early in the evening she mentioned that she had a rough break-up last year, then an hour later gave me the full story about how her five-year marriage disintegrated and she's been single for a year. I appreciated the honesty.
After dinner we got coffee and dessert at a little restaurant up the street. ME was fairly touchy-feely, which was encouraging. When we finished our dessert we called it a night. I walked ME to her car, which was about 15 minutes from the restaurant, then she drove me down to the Dupont Metro station. We kissed for a few minutes in the car then I left. We're going to try and get together for dinner again this weekend.
Yesterday I took Bartender shooting. I showed up at her house at the appointed hour and knocked on her door. Bartender answered and she looked a little roughed-up. She had on baggy jeans and a ratty t-shirt. Her hair was all fucked up and she smelled like stale cigarettes and booze covered with perfume.
Initial impressions aside, I enjoyed the day. Bartender is a laid back chick. She's smart, easy going, and funny, but all in a tom-boy sort of way. If I had to describe her I would say she's anti-prissy, which is refreshing for DC.
Here's the thing about Bartender, I get the impression that she's on a heavy late-night booty call rotation with a dozen guys. Why do I think this? I can't exactly put my finger on it. The best way to describe it is that if I was in a bar late at night and was looking for an easy hook-up, I would probably set my sights on her. She just had that "ridden hard and put away wet too many times" look about her, especially for a girl who is only 23 or 24.
My guess is that ME is still sorting out her divorce and Bartender has daddy issues. I hope I'm wrong, but my prediction is that ME will be a basket case because she's in dating-limbo after being out of the game for so long, and Bartender will be a fantastic hook-up but little more.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Rave
Last week I went out for happy hour and parked my bike on the street between two cars. When I left the bar I had a $20 ticket for "Fail to Park Parallel" (that's what the ticket said, don't blame me for the meter-maid's grammar). In the 18+ years that I've been riding I've never heard of such a thing.
The bike was parked in a legal parallel parking space with the meter fed. My bike was backed in at about a 45 degree angle to the street with my back tire resting against the curb. This is the way you park a bike, and any biker worth his salt will tell you the same.
Naturally there was no chance I was paying the fine. I am prepared to spend whatever time or money is necessary to fight this ticket.
Yesterday I wrote a one-page letter to the city telling them what I thought about their analysis of my parking. The letter included three color 8.5" x 11" photos of my bike parked on the road along with the entire 97 page District of Colombia Motorcycle Operator's Manual, which I downloaded from the DMV website and printed. On page 20 of this document I highlighted the paragraph that describes how you should park at a "90 degree angle to the curb with your rear wheel touching the curb." I really love that the city has a fine that directly contradicts one of their own rules of the road.
What really chaps my ass about erroneous tickets like this is that the dumb-fuck-high-school-drop-out-shit-for-brains the city hires can pass out tickets at random without care or consequence and gets paid to do so, but we citizens have to use our personal time to defend ourselves against what essentially amounts to a guilty until proven innocent system.
I checked on the BLS website and learned that "parking enforcement officers" earn between $35,000 and $50,000 per year. I would like to see the dollar value of the tickets an average officer writes in a year and see if it covers their salaries, benefits, and vehicle costs. I bet the city doesn't even break even, it probably costs the city money to enforce parking.
No sense whipping that dead horse any further.
Yesterday ME sent me a text and invited me to go see a DJ named Paul Oakenfold "spin" at the 9:30 Club. I Googled this guy and turns out he's a pretty famous DJ that plays kind of heavy trance shit, which is great and all, but not necessarily for a first date. Also, I know what my strong-points are and they don't include techno-glow-stick dancing.
I called Chuck and explained what I was invited to and he said "Nice! I know what you'll be doing tonight!". I said "What, because I have no idea?". He said "You're going to get all fucked up on X then have buck-wild sex with that chick until the sun comes up [paraphrasing here, he went on and on]". I said "Aren't I a little old to be doing extacy. Also, you just described best case scenario. More likely I'll take some drug, freak out, and spend the rest of the night locked in a stall in the men's room playing with a roll of toilet paper. Worst case scenario is I wind up in the ER with an adrenaline needle shoved in my heart. And drugs or no drugs, you've seen me dance, it's not the best way for me to impress a girl" He sounded genuinely bummed and said "Man, why do you have to be that way? Always so negative."
I have to admit that I thought long and hard about what to do and almost went solely because I knew I would get a great story out of it. Either I would have had mind blowing sex or been completely humiliated and never talk to ME again. I was prepared for the worst just for the story. However, in the end I pussed out and said I couldn't go. I opted for a much safer fist date of drinks on Saturday night.
I met a bartender last Saturday night and got her number so last night I gave her a call. The phone rang a bunch of times and I was expecting it to go to VM then I heard her pick up. Fuck, who does that, who answers calls from numbers they don't recognize! I had my message all planned in my head, then she goes and fucks it all up by answering the goddamn phone.
For all my bitching I kind of like that she answered because there aren't any games. We talked for a short time then made plans to get together Sunday. This chick seems really wild.
The bike was parked in a legal parallel parking space with the meter fed. My bike was backed in at about a 45 degree angle to the street with my back tire resting against the curb. This is the way you park a bike, and any biker worth his salt will tell you the same.
Naturally there was no chance I was paying the fine. I am prepared to spend whatever time or money is necessary to fight this ticket.
Yesterday I wrote a one-page letter to the city telling them what I thought about their analysis of my parking. The letter included three color 8.5" x 11" photos of my bike parked on the road along with the entire 97 page District of Colombia Motorcycle Operator's Manual, which I downloaded from the DMV website and printed. On page 20 of this document I highlighted the paragraph that describes how you should park at a "90 degree angle to the curb with your rear wheel touching the curb." I really love that the city has a fine that directly contradicts one of their own rules of the road.
What really chaps my ass about erroneous tickets like this is that the dumb-fuck-high-school-drop-out-shit-for-brains the city hires can pass out tickets at random without care or consequence and gets paid to do so, but we citizens have to use our personal time to defend ourselves against what essentially amounts to a guilty until proven innocent system.
I checked on the BLS website and learned that "parking enforcement officers" earn between $35,000 and $50,000 per year. I would like to see the dollar value of the tickets an average officer writes in a year and see if it covers their salaries, benefits, and vehicle costs. I bet the city doesn't even break even, it probably costs the city money to enforce parking.
No sense whipping that dead horse any further.
Yesterday ME sent me a text and invited me to go see a DJ named Paul Oakenfold "spin" at the 9:30 Club. I Googled this guy and turns out he's a pretty famous DJ that plays kind of heavy trance shit, which is great and all, but not necessarily for a first date. Also, I know what my strong-points are and they don't include techno-glow-stick dancing.
I called Chuck and explained what I was invited to and he said "Nice! I know what you'll be doing tonight!". I said "What, because I have no idea?". He said "You're going to get all fucked up on X then have buck-wild sex with that chick until the sun comes up [paraphrasing here, he went on and on]". I said "Aren't I a little old to be doing extacy. Also, you just described best case scenario. More likely I'll take some drug, freak out, and spend the rest of the night locked in a stall in the men's room playing with a roll of toilet paper. Worst case scenario is I wind up in the ER with an adrenaline needle shoved in my heart. And drugs or no drugs, you've seen me dance, it's not the best way for me to impress a girl" He sounded genuinely bummed and said "Man, why do you have to be that way? Always so negative."
I have to admit that I thought long and hard about what to do and almost went solely because I knew I would get a great story out of it. Either I would have had mind blowing sex or been completely humiliated and never talk to ME again. I was prepared for the worst just for the story. However, in the end I pussed out and said I couldn't go. I opted for a much safer fist date of drinks on Saturday night.
I met a bartender last Saturday night and got her number so last night I gave her a call. The phone rang a bunch of times and I was expecting it to go to VM then I heard her pick up. Fuck, who does that, who answers calls from numbers they don't recognize! I had my message all planned in my head, then she goes and fucks it all up by answering the goddamn phone.
For all my bitching I kind of like that she answered because there aren't any games. We talked for a short time then made plans to get together Sunday. This chick seems really wild.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Pork!
I'm not going to lie, I'm still drunk from last night. I went to a concert with Bear and I must have had fifteen screw drivers. Really, who drinks screw drivers? What in the holy hell was I thinking? The following post will be heavily influenced by Russian Vodka and OJ made from cencentrate.
Friday night I went to dinner to celebrate a friend's birthday. In attendence were three other couples who apparently were all Jewish. The restaurant was tapas style so we all ordered a few plates and they were served communal-style. At one point the waiter set a plate down and one chick at the table yelled out "PORK! Who ordered pork?" I thought for a moment then realized I had indeed ordered something with bacon on it, so I said "Yeah, I think I did". The girl stared at me then said "Oh!", and pushed it away like it was a plate of AIDS riddled human baby flesh. Am I not allowed to order bacon because someone at the table is Jewish?
While I was stuffing my face with swine the Jewish chick was pontificating about her superior politcal views and said something like "...and he's not even anti-gun...", which in context implied that this person was clearly an idiot for NOT being anti-gun. I said "So, you're against guns and the second amendment?" and she said "Yes, of course! Aren't you?". I said "No. Actually, I'm a big fan of guns. As a matter of fact, I have one strapped to my ankle right now", which I didn't but was amused to see her go white when I said it. I was surprised that basically ended the debate.
Saturday night I went to dinner with my sister. It was kind of late so we sat at the bar. While we were eating I chatted up the bartender who was pretty cool. Towards the end of dinner I said "So, do you ever get a night off?". She said she did and I asked her if she would like to get together for a drink some time. She looked at me for a second, then glanced at my sister. There was a second of uncomfortable silence then I said "Oh, actually, this is my sister!". The bartender laughed and then wrote her number on a piece of paper and handed it to me.
We'll see how that goes.
Friday night I went to dinner to celebrate a friend's birthday. In attendence were three other couples who apparently were all Jewish. The restaurant was tapas style so we all ordered a few plates and they were served communal-style. At one point the waiter set a plate down and one chick at the table yelled out "PORK! Who ordered pork?" I thought for a moment then realized I had indeed ordered something with bacon on it, so I said "Yeah, I think I did". The girl stared at me then said "Oh!", and pushed it away like it was a plate of AIDS riddled human baby flesh. Am I not allowed to order bacon because someone at the table is Jewish?
While I was stuffing my face with swine the Jewish chick was pontificating about her superior politcal views and said something like "...and he's not even anti-gun...", which in context implied that this person was clearly an idiot for NOT being anti-gun. I said "So, you're against guns and the second amendment?" and she said "Yes, of course! Aren't you?". I said "No. Actually, I'm a big fan of guns. As a matter of fact, I have one strapped to my ankle right now", which I didn't but was amused to see her go white when I said it. I was surprised that basically ended the debate.
Saturday night I went to dinner with my sister. It was kind of late so we sat at the bar. While we were eating I chatted up the bartender who was pretty cool. Towards the end of dinner I said "So, do you ever get a night off?". She said she did and I asked her if she would like to get together for a drink some time. She looked at me for a second, then glanced at my sister. There was a second of uncomfortable silence then I said "Oh, actually, this is my sister!". The bartender laughed and then wrote her number on a piece of paper and handed it to me.
We'll see how that goes.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Ferris Wheel
I talked to ME on the phone last night. I waited two days before calling her then she waited the requisite day before returning the call. Very predictable. What's all the pomp and circumstance about, who needs it? How are you? How was your day? What did you do for dinner? Does she really believe I care about any of those things? Does she really believe that I believe she cares how I answer? Doubtful, it's just two people being polite.
Why can't we just say what's on our minds "So, this is kind of awkward, you know, meeting at a coffee shop and then calling you on a Tuesday night. We have nothing in common at this point, or at least that we know of, so here is a list of things I thought of ahead of time to drag out this conversation just long to convince you I'm not just calling to sleep with you. Ready, here we go...?"
I'm not certain where she was but if I had to guess I would say a monster truck rally. I heard a crowd in the background, lots of cheering, and I swore at one point I heard a funny car engine revving up followed by crushing metal.
So after the usual niceties we did the date-book dance to try and figure out when we could get together for the first of three dates before we slept together or stopped speaking. Tonight was no good, though neither of us gave a good reason why. She's out of town Friday to Sunday. Sunday night I'm going to a concert with Bear. She had something on Monday. She started to ask me to some concert on Tuesday night but then must have remembered she already asked some other guy and rescinded the offer. Wednesday my mom comes to town, Thursday is Thanksgiving. Friday my mom is still in town. Saturday...well who the fuck can plan that far out? I'll tell you who can't, this guy. We left off that we would "talk" sometime next week, which sucks because I have to come up with bullshit to stoke 15 more minutes of benign conversation.
I know I sound bitter, but I'm not. I think I'm just jaded, or maybe bored. I already know what's going to happen, I've seen this movie before. The storyline goes something like this:
Date 1: Weeknight. Drinks someplace nice, maybe dinner. We'll both drink just enough to loosen up but not so much that we get "drunk". Conversation is light with lots of forced laughter. We'll linger a little long after the table is cleared then walk outside. Just before she gets in the cab we'll kiss on the cheek or maybe lips, but no tongue.
Date 2: Weeknight. Same dinner as above then move to another bar for drinks afterwards. Questions will become more personal. She will tell me she's divorced or was engaged or has a tattoo someplace she can't show me and I will feign interest. At the end of the night we'll kiss then go our respective ways because we have work in the morning.
Date 3 - Option 1: Weekend. This will include some sort of activity like shooting or a chilly motorcycle ride. After the activity we'll adjourn at my house for a seemingly impromptu though actually well-planned dinner, which of course will include two bottles of wine. Afterwards we'll go in the hot tub where our clothes will come off followed by fucking and either uncomfortable sleep or an awkward "can you call me a cab" discussion.
Date 3 - Option 2: Weekend. This will include some sort of activity like shooting or a chilly motorcycle ride. After the activity we'll adjourn at my house for a seemingly impromptu though actually well-planned dinner, which of course will include two bottles of wine. Afterwards we'll go in the hot tub where our clothes will stay on and we will make out until we are driven from the tub by heat-induced heart murmurs. Queue the awkward exit and days of strange text messages.
How do I get off this Ferris wheel.
Why can't we just say what's on our minds "So, this is kind of awkward, you know, meeting at a coffee shop and then calling you on a Tuesday night. We have nothing in common at this point, or at least that we know of, so here is a list of things I thought of ahead of time to drag out this conversation just long to convince you I'm not just calling to sleep with you. Ready, here we go...?"
I'm not certain where she was but if I had to guess I would say a monster truck rally. I heard a crowd in the background, lots of cheering, and I swore at one point I heard a funny car engine revving up followed by crushing metal.
So after the usual niceties we did the date-book dance to try and figure out when we could get together for the first of three dates before we slept together or stopped speaking. Tonight was no good, though neither of us gave a good reason why. She's out of town Friday to Sunday. Sunday night I'm going to a concert with Bear. She had something on Monday. She started to ask me to some concert on Tuesday night but then must have remembered she already asked some other guy and rescinded the offer. Wednesday my mom comes to town, Thursday is Thanksgiving. Friday my mom is still in town. Saturday...well who the fuck can plan that far out? I'll tell you who can't, this guy. We left off that we would "talk" sometime next week, which sucks because I have to come up with bullshit to stoke 15 more minutes of benign conversation.
I know I sound bitter, but I'm not. I think I'm just jaded, or maybe bored. I already know what's going to happen, I've seen this movie before. The storyline goes something like this:
Date 1: Weeknight. Drinks someplace nice, maybe dinner. We'll both drink just enough to loosen up but not so much that we get "drunk". Conversation is light with lots of forced laughter. We'll linger a little long after the table is cleared then walk outside. Just before she gets in the cab we'll kiss on the cheek or maybe lips, but no tongue.
Date 2: Weeknight. Same dinner as above then move to another bar for drinks afterwards. Questions will become more personal. She will tell me she's divorced or was engaged or has a tattoo someplace she can't show me and I will feign interest. At the end of the night we'll kiss then go our respective ways because we have work in the morning.
Date 3 - Option 1: Weekend. This will include some sort of activity like shooting or a chilly motorcycle ride. After the activity we'll adjourn at my house for a seemingly impromptu though actually well-planned dinner, which of course will include two bottles of wine. Afterwards we'll go in the hot tub where our clothes will come off followed by fucking and either uncomfortable sleep or an awkward "can you call me a cab" discussion.
Date 3 - Option 2: Weekend. This will include some sort of activity like shooting or a chilly motorcycle ride. After the activity we'll adjourn at my house for a seemingly impromptu though actually well-planned dinner, which of course will include two bottles of wine. Afterwards we'll go in the hot tub where our clothes will stay on and we will make out until we are driven from the tub by heat-induced heart murmurs. Queue the awkward exit and days of strange text messages.
How do I get off this Ferris wheel.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Hot Yoga and Hot ME
For the past two weeks my buddy Chuck has been breaking my balls that I don't get out enough. He wants to know why I'm not meeting more women. When I explained that I just don't seem to interact with many single women on a daily basis he dismissed my excuse and said it was bullshit, and that I don't go out of my way enough to meet girls. My response was "Where da white women at", a quote from Blazing Saddles that I use all the time. His response: Everywhere! Rather than fight with him I decided to branch out a bit and see if there were places other than the bars to meet successful, attractive, single women.
My sister is always telling me how many cute girls are in her yoga class so last Thursday I went with her to an evening hot yoga class at Down Dog in Georgetown. I've done yoga twice before about six years ago. My first class was a beginner class and my second was a beginner's hot class that was not very hot at all. Being a former wrestler and used to working out long hours in hundred degree rooms while wearing sweat suits I wasn't nervous about going.
I will preface this story by saying this was a profoundly stupid idea.
I arrived at the studio 15 minutes early and signed up. My sister brought me a mat and a towel and had set me up with her and her friends at the front row. I stripped down to a pair of shorts and a white wife-beater in the lobby then went into the classroom which was a sweltering 90 degrees and probably 90% humidity. My guess is there were 50 women and 10 dudes, including myself. Standard dress for the women was black spandex "shorts" and a sports bra. The other guys had on shorts only, no shirts, but I opted to keep the wife-beater on.
The class started out easy enough with light stretching then transitioned to a series of easy moves. Aside from the stifling heat, it was about 1/8 as stressful as my normal evening workout. Then the pace picked up, and as it did the temperature soared. Within 30 minutes my shirt was completely soaked and I had to peal it off because I was afraid I was going to overheat.
The instructor was like a sadistic hairy Yoda on meth. Up, down, stand on one leg, stand on your head, raise your arms, inhale, exhale, inhale your biggest breath, exhale mouth open, right eagle, saran wrap on your fingers. What the fuck does all this mean? There were a couple of times I wanted to skip a position or take a break, but then I would spot one of the dorky guys holding strong and I silently repeated to myself "anything he can do I can do better, anything he can do I can do better..." over and over and pressed on.
The pace and difficulty of the poses picked up and finally reached a crescendo 75 minutes into the class. By then I had pretty much run out of fluids (vodka) to sweat out and would have gladly killed Yoda in order to end the class early. He wasn't even doing the poses with us, he was just walking around the room barking orders. Why don't you come over here and stand on one fucking leg and arch your head back and I'll walk around and call out impossible contortions for a while.
Side Note:
I'm not sure what the point of yoga is. It has no cardiovascular benefits, you don't gain muscle, and the only weight you can lose doing it is water weight, which you put back on in 24 hours. You sweat like a motherfucker, but do I need to pay $20 to do that?
The class ended with a cool-down and some chanting that I thought was ridiculous. Afterwards, the whole class of sixty sweating dizzy people poured themselves into the tiny lobby and tried their best to get dressed. It was a tangle of sharp, sticky elbows and knees. There is literally no way you could chat up a girl in this environment. Everyone is half-naked, light headed and encrusted in a layer of their own body salts. There was one very tall, very skinny blond that was stunning whom I would have liked to say hello to, but it was just impossible. I pulled on a shirt and a hoodie and left as soon as I could. I may try this again but I don't think this is the right place to pick up women.
Yesterday I went to Tryst to get some coffee and read a book. I've said it before, I'm not usually one to sit inside on a nice sunny day, especially not in a coffee shop, but I thought I would give it a shot.
I got to Tryst around 1pm and took a seat on a couch near the back of the restaurant and ordered a coffee. While I was reading a girl came over and asked if the seat next to me was open. I said yes and she sat down. She was my age or maybe a little younger, with dark eyes, long black hair, pretty face, dark complexion, medium height and very fit. She was wearing a short skirt, high heels, and a black sweater, so she was considerably more dressed up than the rest of the clientele. I also thought I detected a slight accent but couldn't place it.
After a while typing on her computer she asked if I would watch her things while she went to the restroom. I said sure and she left. While she was gone I tried to think of something witty to say when she came back. I was going to make a reference to going through her purse, as a joke, then came to my senses and realized how retarded I was going to come off. I said nothing and just smiled when she came back.
A little while later someone came and asked if there was room on the couch for one more, so the girl said yes and scooted over to me so that the other girl could sit on the end seat. I don't know why, but I started to get shy. I pressed my face further into my book and sat completely still. I had zoned out for a bit when the girl nudged my arm and said "What are you reading?". We talked about my book and she asked "Are you a musician?". It was kind of left field, I said no, and we chatted for a little longer. I found out that she's middle eastern, lives in the city, travels a lot, and is very bright/educated. I'm going to call her ME, for Middle Eastern.
After my third coffee I was all hopped from the caffeine and decided it was time to leave. I cleared my check, shook her hand and said it was very nice to meet her. Just before I got up I said "Would you like to get a drink sometime?". She nodded and said "Yeah...yes" in a cute kind of shy way. I took her number and then left.
My sister is always telling me how many cute girls are in her yoga class so last Thursday I went with her to an evening hot yoga class at Down Dog in Georgetown. I've done yoga twice before about six years ago. My first class was a beginner class and my second was a beginner's hot class that was not very hot at all. Being a former wrestler and used to working out long hours in hundred degree rooms while wearing sweat suits I wasn't nervous about going.
I will preface this story by saying this was a profoundly stupid idea.
I arrived at the studio 15 minutes early and signed up. My sister brought me a mat and a towel and had set me up with her and her friends at the front row. I stripped down to a pair of shorts and a white wife-beater in the lobby then went into the classroom which was a sweltering 90 degrees and probably 90% humidity. My guess is there were 50 women and 10 dudes, including myself. Standard dress for the women was black spandex "shorts" and a sports bra. The other guys had on shorts only, no shirts, but I opted to keep the wife-beater on.
The class started out easy enough with light stretching then transitioned to a series of easy moves. Aside from the stifling heat, it was about 1/8 as stressful as my normal evening workout. Then the pace picked up, and as it did the temperature soared. Within 30 minutes my shirt was completely soaked and I had to peal it off because I was afraid I was going to overheat.
The instructor was like a sadistic hairy Yoda on meth. Up, down, stand on one leg, stand on your head, raise your arms, inhale, exhale, inhale your biggest breath, exhale mouth open, right eagle, saran wrap on your fingers. What the fuck does all this mean? There were a couple of times I wanted to skip a position or take a break, but then I would spot one of the dorky guys holding strong and I silently repeated to myself "anything he can do I can do better, anything he can do I can do better..." over and over and pressed on.
The pace and difficulty of the poses picked up and finally reached a crescendo 75 minutes into the class. By then I had pretty much run out of fluids (vodka) to sweat out and would have gladly killed Yoda in order to end the class early. He wasn't even doing the poses with us, he was just walking around the room barking orders. Why don't you come over here and stand on one fucking leg and arch your head back and I'll walk around and call out impossible contortions for a while.
Side Note:
I'm not sure what the point of yoga is. It has no cardiovascular benefits, you don't gain muscle, and the only weight you can lose doing it is water weight, which you put back on in 24 hours. You sweat like a motherfucker, but do I need to pay $20 to do that?
The class ended with a cool-down and some chanting that I thought was ridiculous. Afterwards, the whole class of sixty sweating dizzy people poured themselves into the tiny lobby and tried their best to get dressed. It was a tangle of sharp, sticky elbows and knees. There is literally no way you could chat up a girl in this environment. Everyone is half-naked, light headed and encrusted in a layer of their own body salts. There was one very tall, very skinny blond that was stunning whom I would have liked to say hello to, but it was just impossible. I pulled on a shirt and a hoodie and left as soon as I could. I may try this again but I don't think this is the right place to pick up women.
Yesterday I went to Tryst to get some coffee and read a book. I've said it before, I'm not usually one to sit inside on a nice sunny day, especially not in a coffee shop, but I thought I would give it a shot.
I got to Tryst around 1pm and took a seat on a couch near the back of the restaurant and ordered a coffee. While I was reading a girl came over and asked if the seat next to me was open. I said yes and she sat down. She was my age or maybe a little younger, with dark eyes, long black hair, pretty face, dark complexion, medium height and very fit. She was wearing a short skirt, high heels, and a black sweater, so she was considerably more dressed up than the rest of the clientele. I also thought I detected a slight accent but couldn't place it.
After a while typing on her computer she asked if I would watch her things while she went to the restroom. I said sure and she left. While she was gone I tried to think of something witty to say when she came back. I was going to make a reference to going through her purse, as a joke, then came to my senses and realized how retarded I was going to come off. I said nothing and just smiled when she came back.
A little while later someone came and asked if there was room on the couch for one more, so the girl said yes and scooted over to me so that the other girl could sit on the end seat. I don't know why, but I started to get shy. I pressed my face further into my book and sat completely still. I had zoned out for a bit when the girl nudged my arm and said "What are you reading?". We talked about my book and she asked "Are you a musician?". It was kind of left field, I said no, and we chatted for a little longer. I found out that she's middle eastern, lives in the city, travels a lot, and is very bright/educated. I'm going to call her ME, for Middle Eastern.
After my third coffee I was all hopped from the caffeine and decided it was time to leave. I cleared my check, shook her hand and said it was very nice to meet her. Just before I got up I said "Would you like to get a drink sometime?". She nodded and said "Yeah...yes" in a cute kind of shy way. I took her number and then left.
Monday, November 8, 2010
A Trainer and Bette Midler
Friday night I went to the Capitols-Bruins game at the Verizon Center with my friends Paul, Andy, and Andy's buddy Mike. I "planned" the night, and I use the term in the loosest possible sense. After the game we went to Rocket Bar (big surprise) and then Marvin's on 14th and U Streets where I made out with one girl and "took" another one home. Sorry for all the quotation marks, later you'll see why they are necessary.
Part of the fun of living in a city is that there is always something going on, and lately I've been feeling like I don't take enough advantage of that. Hockey games are always a good time so last week I sent out a few text messages to see if anyone was interested. Paul and Andy said they were in and asked if I had tickets. Tickets? To the Capitols? They blow, I bet people will be giving them away on every street corner. They should fucking pay us to go! Of course none of this is true. The Caps are great this year, and the Bruins are good as well. The Caps have sold out the past 67 home games, they are as hard to get, if not harder, than Redskins tickets.
As you can see I am a broad strokes kind of planner, I don't bother with the details, that's what secretaries are for. So, we showed up at the Verizon center at 6:30 to scalp tickets. I walked up to the first guy I saw and said "I need four". He asked how much I wanted to pay and, still under the impression that the Caps sucked, said "Forty?". He didn't even dignify my offer with a counter, he just walked off. Andy said "I don't think we're going to get anything inside for forty a ticket, why don't you try sixty or eighty." Fuck that, I thought. I walked up to another shiester and said "Hey, you got four together in the Club Level?". The guy, who was drinking a 22oz beer in a brown paper bag and smelled like he hadn't showered in this century said "Man, ain't no one got four together in Club, they sold out motherfucker, ain't you know that?" OK, time to adjust my expectations.
Just as I was thinking we were going to be watching the game from Clyde's shiester #3 overheard Andy and I discussing our options and said "I got four clubs together". I was skeptical but said "OK, how much?" He said "Six hundred". What started out as a easy going night of hockey and beer was turning in a complicated, expensive production. Jesus, I just want to watch the game, I don't want an ownership stake in the team. Four years ago I could have bought the licensing rights to the team for just a little more than we were about to pay for four 200-level seats. I said "Eighty a piece" and he almost pimp-slapped me. I said $90, he countered at $135. I said $90 again, he went to $125. "No, ninety". He was indignant and said $125. I couldn't believe I was standing on 7th Street negotiating with a guy that had gold teeth. I said "OK, dude, a hundred, that's it". He said "One. Twelve. Fifty!". we started to walk away and he said "OK, a hundred" then muttered under his breath "But ya'll is cheap as fuck." I guess we are. I mean, his teeth probably cost more than my car. I wondered if the black two door Bentley parked across the street at Rosa Mexicano was his.
The game was fun. We had good seats low on the second deck right near the bar. I'm testing a new theory that beer makes me sleepy and prone to passing out early, so I snuck in a flask of Captain Morgan's rum that I mixed in a giant cup of Coke. If you're wondering how to get a flask in to a stadium I subscribe to the "hide in plain sight" school of thought that Chuck taught me. What you do is hold your ticket in one hand and the flask in the other (works best with small flasks). When they frisk you keep sticking the ticket in their face. They will be so distracted and annoyed that they won't see the flask. It works every time. My other favorite hiding spot is in my boot, which coincidentally is also a great place to hide other items.
After the game we headed over to Rocket Bar where we met some of Andy's coworkers. The bar was packed but there wasn't much talent there so after a couple of hours we all cabbed over to Marvin's on U Street.
I talked to a few of Andy's friends at the bar, and one was cute enough, but a little on the boring side. Mike, who was completely hammered at this point and barely on his feet said "It's my turn to buy a round, let's make it a shot". Mike ordered shots of chilled rail vodka...who does that? Just as we took the shot these two blond girls walked over to the bar and stood behind us. Andy said "NN, buy those two girls a drink, they're hot." It's true, they were hot but in that stripper sort of way. I said hello then noticed that one of the girls had a bar going through the bridge of her nose, a ring like a bull through her two nostrils, and some piece of equipment in her lower lip. If you're wondering if it's acceptable to ask a girl with all that shit in her face if her clit is pierced as well, I can now say with some degree of certainty that it is not.
After the two strippers walked off in a huff I threw Mike's shot of rubbing alcohol down and ordered a rum and coke. A short brunette who was standing next to me turned and said "I find you so attractive", which is a pretty unusual opener. I checked her out and said "Hi, I'm NN" and reached out to shake her hand. With that she jumped up and stuck her tongue down my throat.
Trainer: The Trainer was about 5'2", petite, with long black hair and blue eyes. Her body was fantastic, a solid 8.
Turns out she was a trainer from San Diego that was in town visiting her brother. While we were on the dance floor mugging down (shame on me, I know) I said "You're visiting your brother? Where is he?" and she said "Right over there" and pointed to a guy in the corner who looked like a Miami cocaine dealer. He was tall, barrel chested with bleached white hair and a nose that looked like it had been busted a hundred times. He had on a white suit and a shirt almost totally unbuttoned. I said "great" then looked at him a little closer and said "Actually, I think I know him. Where did he go to college?" Trainer said the school and I said "Yeah, I knew he looked familiar, that's where I went." We had been dancing and making out for a while so I said "Uh, so is that going to make it awkward, you coming home with me and all?". Trainer thought about it for a second and said "I can't go home with you, he'd kill me".
Fair enough, I guess.
Not long after Trainer and her gooned-up brother left. I regrouped and found some of Andy's friends standing in a corner. I started chatting with this tall blond girl with a great body but who looked like Sideshow Bob from the Simpsons. No embellishment could shine a flattering light on this girl, she was simply not attractive. She had this crazy kinky blond Jew-fro, buck teeth, wild eyes. She looked like a tall (well over 6'), thin Bette Midler. I asked Bette where she lived and she told me the address, which was literally two blocks from my house. It was getting about 2:45 by then so I said "want to share a cab home?", which of course is late-night-bar-code for "want to come back to my house and wake up my neighbors". Bette said sure and we gathered up our coats.
Just as we were heading out this other kid who worked with her asked if we were leaving. She said yes, and he asked if he could split a cab with us. I gave him the look of death and thought "Dude, I already used that line, you can't fucking piggy back on it", but trying to seem laid back simply said "Yeah, sure".
In the cab I was determined to salvage the night. When we got closer to my house I said "Hey, Bette, want to come over for a beer? Doofus, you're welcome to come too" badly wanting to call him "Doofus" for real, but saying his real name instead. Bette said yeah, sure. Then, Fuck-Nut, not taking any of the obvious hints said "Yeah, that would be great, it's still early". Are you kidding me! If he had been sitting next to me I would given him an elbow to the solar plexus.
The cab stopped on the corner near Bette's house. Fuck-Nut and I split the fare then as we got out he said "Where is your place, NN?" I couldn't believe how fucking dense this dick head was being. I'll play the war of attrition game, but Bette Midler over there wasn't worth the sleep loss. Scram, loser. I pointed down the street and said "I live one block over" pointing down the street, then turned to Bette and said "You still want a drink or are you calling it a night?". Bette said "I don't know. My bed is sounding so good right now. I really don't want to make out, I think I'm going to call it a night."
At least she was honest and didn't waste my time.
I said good night and started walking home. To my amazement Fuck-Nut followed me the whole block. When we got to my house I was like "Hey, guy, I think I'm going to call it a night as well" and started up my steps. He said "Yeah, OK, it's getting late, maybe another time." I said "Right!" in my most sarcastic tone and dead-bolted the door behind me.
Strange fucking night. Dry spells suck.
Part of the fun of living in a city is that there is always something going on, and lately I've been feeling like I don't take enough advantage of that. Hockey games are always a good time so last week I sent out a few text messages to see if anyone was interested. Paul and Andy said they were in and asked if I had tickets. Tickets? To the Capitols? They blow, I bet people will be giving them away on every street corner. They should fucking pay us to go! Of course none of this is true. The Caps are great this year, and the Bruins are good as well. The Caps have sold out the past 67 home games, they are as hard to get, if not harder, than Redskins tickets.
As you can see I am a broad strokes kind of planner, I don't bother with the details, that's what secretaries are for. So, we showed up at the Verizon center at 6:30 to scalp tickets. I walked up to the first guy I saw and said "I need four". He asked how much I wanted to pay and, still under the impression that the Caps sucked, said "Forty?". He didn't even dignify my offer with a counter, he just walked off. Andy said "I don't think we're going to get anything inside for forty a ticket, why don't you try sixty or eighty." Fuck that, I thought. I walked up to another shiester and said "Hey, you got four together in the Club Level?". The guy, who was drinking a 22oz beer in a brown paper bag and smelled like he hadn't showered in this century said "Man, ain't no one got four together in Club, they sold out motherfucker, ain't you know that?" OK, time to adjust my expectations.
Just as I was thinking we were going to be watching the game from Clyde's shiester #3 overheard Andy and I discussing our options and said "I got four clubs together". I was skeptical but said "OK, how much?" He said "Six hundred". What started out as a easy going night of hockey and beer was turning in a complicated, expensive production. Jesus, I just want to watch the game, I don't want an ownership stake in the team. Four years ago I could have bought the licensing rights to the team for just a little more than we were about to pay for four 200-level seats. I said "Eighty a piece" and he almost pimp-slapped me. I said $90, he countered at $135. I said $90 again, he went to $125. "No, ninety". He was indignant and said $125. I couldn't believe I was standing on 7th Street negotiating with a guy that had gold teeth. I said "OK, dude, a hundred, that's it". He said "One. Twelve. Fifty!". we started to walk away and he said "OK, a hundred" then muttered under his breath "But ya'll is cheap as fuck." I guess we are. I mean, his teeth probably cost more than my car. I wondered if the black two door Bentley parked across the street at Rosa Mexicano was his.
The game was fun. We had good seats low on the second deck right near the bar. I'm testing a new theory that beer makes me sleepy and prone to passing out early, so I snuck in a flask of Captain Morgan's rum that I mixed in a giant cup of Coke. If you're wondering how to get a flask in to a stadium I subscribe to the "hide in plain sight" school of thought that Chuck taught me. What you do is hold your ticket in one hand and the flask in the other (works best with small flasks). When they frisk you keep sticking the ticket in their face. They will be so distracted and annoyed that they won't see the flask. It works every time. My other favorite hiding spot is in my boot, which coincidentally is also a great place to hide other items.
After the game we headed over to Rocket Bar where we met some of Andy's coworkers. The bar was packed but there wasn't much talent there so after a couple of hours we all cabbed over to Marvin's on U Street.
I talked to a few of Andy's friends at the bar, and one was cute enough, but a little on the boring side. Mike, who was completely hammered at this point and barely on his feet said "It's my turn to buy a round, let's make it a shot". Mike ordered shots of chilled rail vodka...who does that? Just as we took the shot these two blond girls walked over to the bar and stood behind us. Andy said "NN, buy those two girls a drink, they're hot." It's true, they were hot but in that stripper sort of way. I said hello then noticed that one of the girls had a bar going through the bridge of her nose, a ring like a bull through her two nostrils, and some piece of equipment in her lower lip. If you're wondering if it's acceptable to ask a girl with all that shit in her face if her clit is pierced as well, I can now say with some degree of certainty that it is not.
After the two strippers walked off in a huff I threw Mike's shot of rubbing alcohol down and ordered a rum and coke. A short brunette who was standing next to me turned and said "I find you so attractive", which is a pretty unusual opener. I checked her out and said "Hi, I'm NN" and reached out to shake her hand. With that she jumped up and stuck her tongue down my throat.
Trainer: The Trainer was about 5'2", petite, with long black hair and blue eyes. Her body was fantastic, a solid 8.
Turns out she was a trainer from San Diego that was in town visiting her brother. While we were on the dance floor mugging down (shame on me, I know) I said "You're visiting your brother? Where is he?" and she said "Right over there" and pointed to a guy in the corner who looked like a Miami cocaine dealer. He was tall, barrel chested with bleached white hair and a nose that looked like it had been busted a hundred times. He had on a white suit and a shirt almost totally unbuttoned. I said "great" then looked at him a little closer and said "Actually, I think I know him. Where did he go to college?" Trainer said the school and I said "Yeah, I knew he looked familiar, that's where I went." We had been dancing and making out for a while so I said "Uh, so is that going to make it awkward, you coming home with me and all?". Trainer thought about it for a second and said "I can't go home with you, he'd kill me".
Fair enough, I guess.
Not long after Trainer and her gooned-up brother left. I regrouped and found some of Andy's friends standing in a corner. I started chatting with this tall blond girl with a great body but who looked like Sideshow Bob from the Simpsons. No embellishment could shine a flattering light on this girl, she was simply not attractive. She had this crazy kinky blond Jew-fro, buck teeth, wild eyes. She looked like a tall (well over 6'), thin Bette Midler. I asked Bette where she lived and she told me the address, which was literally two blocks from my house. It was getting about 2:45 by then so I said "want to share a cab home?", which of course is late-night-bar-code for "want to come back to my house and wake up my neighbors". Bette said sure and we gathered up our coats.
Just as we were heading out this other kid who worked with her asked if we were leaving. She said yes, and he asked if he could split a cab with us. I gave him the look of death and thought "Dude, I already used that line, you can't fucking piggy back on it", but trying to seem laid back simply said "Yeah, sure".
In the cab I was determined to salvage the night. When we got closer to my house I said "Hey, Bette, want to come over for a beer? Doofus, you're welcome to come too" badly wanting to call him "Doofus" for real, but saying his real name instead. Bette said yeah, sure. Then, Fuck-Nut, not taking any of the obvious hints said "Yeah, that would be great, it's still early". Are you kidding me! If he had been sitting next to me I would given him an elbow to the solar plexus.
The cab stopped on the corner near Bette's house. Fuck-Nut and I split the fare then as we got out he said "Where is your place, NN?" I couldn't believe how fucking dense this dick head was being. I'll play the war of attrition game, but Bette Midler over there wasn't worth the sleep loss. Scram, loser. I pointed down the street and said "I live one block over" pointing down the street, then turned to Bette and said "You still want a drink or are you calling it a night?". Bette said "I don't know. My bed is sounding so good right now. I really don't want to make out, I think I'm going to call it a night."
At least she was honest and didn't waste my time.
I said good night and started walking home. To my amazement Fuck-Nut followed me the whole block. When we got to my house I was like "Hey, guy, I think I'm going to call it a night as well" and started up my steps. He said "Yeah, OK, it's getting late, maybe another time." I said "Right!" in my most sarcastic tone and dead-bolted the door behind me.
Strange fucking night. Dry spells suck.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Bank and Post Office
I was the seventh person in line at the bank, it was 1pm, there were only two tellers, and one customer was trying to waithdraw funds from his account that had not yet "cleared" - a concept he could not grasp. My face was flush from the surge of rage overtaking me. This is why normally sane people snap and go on homicidal rampages. I don't condone it, but I understand why they do it.
While I stood there surpressing the desire to tackle and choke to death the guy at teller #2, I tried to decide what I hate more, mail or banking. What good really comes of either?
We are nearing the end of 2010, what do you still receive in the mail? My billing is all done online, salary is direct deposited, financial statements are emailed to me, my friends wish me Happy Birthday on Facebook, and yesterday I renewed and printed my registration online. The only thing I get in my mailbox is my neighbors mail, credit card applications and useless fliers. All this goes directly into the recycling can, this junk never even makes it into my home. There was a period where I was getting a lot of wedding invitations, but my friends are all married now, so I don't even get those anymore.
When I renovated my house I tried to end this senseless paper parade by not putting up a mailbox, but the mailman just stuffed the crap between my front door and my storm door. When I locked the storm door he left it on my stoop wrapped in rubber bands. Who needs this? Stop harrassing me. And who do you think you are with that pith helmet, anyway? Get a real job, you're nothing but a glorified paperboy.
The only thing I mail anymore are Thank You cards, and I just drop them in a the mailbox at work. Once it's acceptable to send Thank You emails, I'm out, no more mail for me. Period.
Banking is another story. It's a necessary evil. Once a month I take my 8-10 rent checks and deposit them into my account. Last month I tried Capital One's new ATM scan option and the technology is not quiet there yet. You can only scan a few checks at a time and it takes forever. I've tried putting the checks in an envelope and depositing them in the slot, but this delays the actual deposit by at least a day, and when you're dealing with deposits and mortage payments and all these dollars crossing each other on the electronic super-highway, every day counts. So, for the time being I seem to be stuck making physical deposits at the teller window each month, but it doesn't mean I have to like it.
The only other time I go to the bank is if I have to withdraw a large amount of cash. If I'm going to buy a motorcycle I like to pay with crisp new one hundred dollar bills so I can negotiate, bank checks don't work. Last spring I went into my bank, Chevy Chase at the time, and handed the teller my license and a check for $8,000 made out to me. She looked at the check, looked at the license then asked if I called ahead to have the cash ready? I said no and she explained that I could only take out $2,000 at a time from a branch. I said "So I'll have to go to four different banks today to get my eight grand?" and she said "That's right." I thought about it for a second then said "OK, then, I'd like to close out my account." They gave me my eight thousand but asked that in the future I call ahead two days for large withdrawls. I said "No, I don't think so, you'll make an exception then as well". The whole point of a fucking bank is that you can get cash there!!!!
Go about your business.
While I stood there surpressing the desire to tackle and choke to death the guy at teller #2, I tried to decide what I hate more, mail or banking. What good really comes of either?
We are nearing the end of 2010, what do you still receive in the mail? My billing is all done online, salary is direct deposited, financial statements are emailed to me, my friends wish me Happy Birthday on Facebook, and yesterday I renewed and printed my registration online. The only thing I get in my mailbox is my neighbors mail, credit card applications and useless fliers. All this goes directly into the recycling can, this junk never even makes it into my home. There was a period where I was getting a lot of wedding invitations, but my friends are all married now, so I don't even get those anymore.
When I renovated my house I tried to end this senseless paper parade by not putting up a mailbox, but the mailman just stuffed the crap between my front door and my storm door. When I locked the storm door he left it on my stoop wrapped in rubber bands. Who needs this? Stop harrassing me. And who do you think you are with that pith helmet, anyway? Get a real job, you're nothing but a glorified paperboy.
The only thing I mail anymore are Thank You cards, and I just drop them in a the mailbox at work. Once it's acceptable to send Thank You emails, I'm out, no more mail for me. Period.
Banking is another story. It's a necessary evil. Once a month I take my 8-10 rent checks and deposit them into my account. Last month I tried Capital One's new ATM scan option and the technology is not quiet there yet. You can only scan a few checks at a time and it takes forever. I've tried putting the checks in an envelope and depositing them in the slot, but this delays the actual deposit by at least a day, and when you're dealing with deposits and mortage payments and all these dollars crossing each other on the electronic super-highway, every day counts. So, for the time being I seem to be stuck making physical deposits at the teller window each month, but it doesn't mean I have to like it.
The only other time I go to the bank is if I have to withdraw a large amount of cash. If I'm going to buy a motorcycle I like to pay with crisp new one hundred dollar bills so I can negotiate, bank checks don't work. Last spring I went into my bank, Chevy Chase at the time, and handed the teller my license and a check for $8,000 made out to me. She looked at the check, looked at the license then asked if I called ahead to have the cash ready? I said no and she explained that I could only take out $2,000 at a time from a branch. I said "So I'll have to go to four different banks today to get my eight grand?" and she said "That's right." I thought about it for a second then said "OK, then, I'd like to close out my account." They gave me my eight thousand but asked that in the future I call ahead two days for large withdrawls. I said "No, I don't think so, you'll make an exception then as well". The whole point of a fucking bank is that you can get cash there!!!!
Go about your business.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Happy Halloween...Now Clean This Up.
As I've said before, Halloween is my favorite night of the year. You can let your freak flag fly, go bananas, and no one will judge. This year was the second annual NN Halloween Costume Fiesta and as usual mayhem reigned.
I simplified things a little this year. Instead of tons of food and a huge array of beer, wine, and booze, I ordered some party platters of sandwiches, got six cases of Bud Light, and two handles each of: vodka, rum and whiskey. I also bought an ice louge and the biggest bottle of Cuervo 1800 Silver they had to accompany the louge. This apparently was the downfall of several people.
There were some really great costumes. There were scary, gory, funny, creative, stupid, and of course slutty ones. One girl dressed up like Sarah Palin and looked so much like her that when my sister answered the door she was shocked for a second and wasn't sure if she should open it, fearing it was the real Palin.
One of my neighbors brought this crazy clan of Argentines who were completely off the wall, screaming, pounding beers, and never having seen one before, made sweet, sweet love to the ice louge all night. There was also a French group, and one of the girls was SOOOO fucking good looking, but there with this little dorky French kid. He must have been hung like a Wookie to score her. I think there were also about five CIA agents, real ones, not people dressed up like agents, there.
One of the agents brought a girl dressed up as a high class hooker. She was pretty tall to begin with then had on these huge high heels and a giant afro wig that made her look even taller. She was also wearing big sunglasses, a fur coat, and underneath a very skimpy shiny dress that showed off her really tight body. At one point in the night I was standing in a group with her talking about the show The Jersey Shore when she mentioned "DTF". I said "DTF, what's that?" and she said "Down To Fuck". The word "fuck" is thrown around a lot, but the way she said it, and the context it was being used in, shocked me for a second. She must have seen it on my face because she followed that up with "There's also "DTAF". It didn't take me too long to figure out what the "A" was for, but I played along and said "OK, what's that?" and she said "Down To Ass Fuck" then casually took another drag off her cigarette. I thought she was dating the CIA guy, but had to ask, I said "You down with that?", and again very casually she said "Sometimes". I wasn't sure if it was her talking or her costume persona. Naturally I was intrigued, though.
A few of my friends showed up at 11pm, and one said "We brought you something" then slid me a zip-lock bag that was filled with two heavy squares individually wrapped in paper towels. I looked at it for a second then asked "brownies?" and they both said "Yup". I asked "Did you guys have one?" and they said "One and a half each." I wisely opted not to eat them.
At about 1am was stunned to see Madonna from last year's Halloween party walk in with a group of people. There was a connection for her to the party, but the reason I was surprised was because I had been told she wasn't thrilled with me after hooking up with her a few times and never seeing her again. Frankly, I was kind of glad to see her because I didn't have many prospects at the party and I knew she would be "DTF".
A little later in the night I was talking to my sister and one of the CIA agents when she said "You should hook up with the hooker". It caught me really off guard because I thought she was the CIA agent's girlfriend. I mumbled and pointed to the agent, unsure what to say. He sensed what I was doing and said "She came with me, but we're not dating, I have a girlfriend." Game on.
After the crowd thinned a group of us were sitting around in the yard talking, and I was flanked: on one side was the hooker and the other Madonna. Madonna had that thousand meter stare and I knew she was pretty tanked. The hooker seemed buzzed, but I was having a really hard time talking to her. I decided that she was neither DTF nor DTAF, and when her friends got up to leave I said good night and that was that.
Right around this time both my brownie friends hit a wall and promptly passed out on my couch. It was 2:30am and time to go home. Madonna's friends said "OK, it's getting late, I think we're going to head home". This was partially a statement and partially a question aimed at Madonna to see what her intentions were for the rest of the night. She looked at them, waived and waived at one of the girls and said "Good night" to her. That was that, I suppose. She's staying.
I wasn't surprised that the crazy fucking Argentines were the last ones to leave, and by leave, I of course mean "thrown out of the house". They drank their way right up to my front door then stopped, and basically refused to take another step. I grabbed a bunch of beers and some plastic cups and bribed them to leave one at a time with roadies. When the last one stepped over the threshold onto my porch I quietly closed the door then locked the deadbolt.
When I turned around I saw Madonna trying to walk upstairs but unable to make forward progress, all she was doing was swaying. I've seen this movie before and knew my prospects of hooking up were slim. I said "Are you OK" but got no response. I helped her up the stairs and put her in my bed. She passed out into a heap of dead weight before her head hit the pillows.
I turned off the music outside, killed the lights then locked up. I had face paint on as part of my costume so I took a shower and washed it all off. When I got into my room I stripped down and crawled into bed with the lifeless Madonna, who was still in her slutty little costume. I hadn't been in bed for more than a second when she popped up and sprinted to the bathroom. "Sweet!", I said out loud, at least grateful that she made it to the bathroom. Then, I smelled it. I jumped out of bed and turned on the lights. There, ALL over my room, was red and white vomit. It was on my floor, on my dressers, on my stereo, and all over my bed. My dog walked in and was about to start eating it when I grabbed her and shooed her down the hall, but when I got into the hall I saw that Madonna had puked her way all the way to the bathroom like she was on a bombing run. I yelled to no one in particular "Are you kidding me! This is so not cool." I heard a muffled moan come from the bathroom, and thought she might be drowning. Still holding the dog's collar to keep her from lapping up the puke I looked in the bathroom and saw Madonna, on her hands and knees, sloshing around a pool of puke with a wad of toilet paper.
If I believed in Karma I would say this was fair retribution for many of my despicable past indiscretions.
So, at three in the morning I stripped my sheets and my duvee cover off my comforter, mopped the floor, cleaned the bathroom, and sterilized every surface in my room. Finally, after fifteen minutes of vomiting Madonna reappeared and I changed her (like a baby) into a t-shirt and a pair of boxers.
For the rest of the night my house smelled exactly like a hospital. Caustic ammonia-based cleansers trying unsuccessfully to mask the odors of various violently expelled bodily fluids.
At 11am we finally got out of bed. I can honestly (and happily) say that I have never seen anyone leave as quickly as Madonna did. I'm not sure she said a single word to me. As a matter of fact, she left in such a hurry that she didn't even close my front door. I wish I had footage of it, she fled like a refugee.
It was at this point that I noticed that in all the excitement my dog had a nasty bout of diarrhea and sprayed the comforter, which was on the floor in the hallway, with shit. I started laughing uncontrollably. My sister walked into the hall and said "How is that...that shit and puke covered blanket funny?" I said "It isn't, but I would almost like to bring it to my dry cleaner, Mrs. Hung, to see what she says".
I simplified things a little this year. Instead of tons of food and a huge array of beer, wine, and booze, I ordered some party platters of sandwiches, got six cases of Bud Light, and two handles each of: vodka, rum and whiskey. I also bought an ice louge and the biggest bottle of Cuervo 1800 Silver they had to accompany the louge. This apparently was the downfall of several people.
There were some really great costumes. There were scary, gory, funny, creative, stupid, and of course slutty ones. One girl dressed up like Sarah Palin and looked so much like her that when my sister answered the door she was shocked for a second and wasn't sure if she should open it, fearing it was the real Palin.
One of my neighbors brought this crazy clan of Argentines who were completely off the wall, screaming, pounding beers, and never having seen one before, made sweet, sweet love to the ice louge all night. There was also a French group, and one of the girls was SOOOO fucking good looking, but there with this little dorky French kid. He must have been hung like a Wookie to score her. I think there were also about five CIA agents, real ones, not people dressed up like agents, there.
One of the agents brought a girl dressed up as a high class hooker. She was pretty tall to begin with then had on these huge high heels and a giant afro wig that made her look even taller. She was also wearing big sunglasses, a fur coat, and underneath a very skimpy shiny dress that showed off her really tight body. At one point in the night I was standing in a group with her talking about the show The Jersey Shore when she mentioned "DTF". I said "DTF, what's that?" and she said "Down To Fuck". The word "fuck" is thrown around a lot, but the way she said it, and the context it was being used in, shocked me for a second. She must have seen it on my face because she followed that up with "There's also "DTAF". It didn't take me too long to figure out what the "A" was for, but I played along and said "OK, what's that?" and she said "Down To Ass Fuck" then casually took another drag off her cigarette. I thought she was dating the CIA guy, but had to ask, I said "You down with that?", and again very casually she said "Sometimes". I wasn't sure if it was her talking or her costume persona. Naturally I was intrigued, though.
A few of my friends showed up at 11pm, and one said "We brought you something" then slid me a zip-lock bag that was filled with two heavy squares individually wrapped in paper towels. I looked at it for a second then asked "brownies?" and they both said "Yup". I asked "Did you guys have one?" and they said "One and a half each." I wisely opted not to eat them.
At about 1am was stunned to see Madonna from last year's Halloween party walk in with a group of people. There was a connection for her to the party, but the reason I was surprised was because I had been told she wasn't thrilled with me after hooking up with her a few times and never seeing her again. Frankly, I was kind of glad to see her because I didn't have many prospects at the party and I knew she would be "DTF".
A little later in the night I was talking to my sister and one of the CIA agents when she said "You should hook up with the hooker". It caught me really off guard because I thought she was the CIA agent's girlfriend. I mumbled and pointed to the agent, unsure what to say. He sensed what I was doing and said "She came with me, but we're not dating, I have a girlfriend." Game on.
After the crowd thinned a group of us were sitting around in the yard talking, and I was flanked: on one side was the hooker and the other Madonna. Madonna had that thousand meter stare and I knew she was pretty tanked. The hooker seemed buzzed, but I was having a really hard time talking to her. I decided that she was neither DTF nor DTAF, and when her friends got up to leave I said good night and that was that.
Right around this time both my brownie friends hit a wall and promptly passed out on my couch. It was 2:30am and time to go home. Madonna's friends said "OK, it's getting late, I think we're going to head home". This was partially a statement and partially a question aimed at Madonna to see what her intentions were for the rest of the night. She looked at them, waived and waived at one of the girls and said "Good night" to her. That was that, I suppose. She's staying.
I wasn't surprised that the crazy fucking Argentines were the last ones to leave, and by leave, I of course mean "thrown out of the house". They drank their way right up to my front door then stopped, and basically refused to take another step. I grabbed a bunch of beers and some plastic cups and bribed them to leave one at a time with roadies. When the last one stepped over the threshold onto my porch I quietly closed the door then locked the deadbolt.
When I turned around I saw Madonna trying to walk upstairs but unable to make forward progress, all she was doing was swaying. I've seen this movie before and knew my prospects of hooking up were slim. I said "Are you OK" but got no response. I helped her up the stairs and put her in my bed. She passed out into a heap of dead weight before her head hit the pillows.
I turned off the music outside, killed the lights then locked up. I had face paint on as part of my costume so I took a shower and washed it all off. When I got into my room I stripped down and crawled into bed with the lifeless Madonna, who was still in her slutty little costume. I hadn't been in bed for more than a second when she popped up and sprinted to the bathroom. "Sweet!", I said out loud, at least grateful that she made it to the bathroom. Then, I smelled it. I jumped out of bed and turned on the lights. There, ALL over my room, was red and white vomit. It was on my floor, on my dressers, on my stereo, and all over my bed. My dog walked in and was about to start eating it when I grabbed her and shooed her down the hall, but when I got into the hall I saw that Madonna had puked her way all the way to the bathroom like she was on a bombing run. I yelled to no one in particular "Are you kidding me! This is so not cool." I heard a muffled moan come from the bathroom, and thought she might be drowning. Still holding the dog's collar to keep her from lapping up the puke I looked in the bathroom and saw Madonna, on her hands and knees, sloshing around a pool of puke with a wad of toilet paper.
If I believed in Karma I would say this was fair retribution for many of my despicable past indiscretions.
So, at three in the morning I stripped my sheets and my duvee cover off my comforter, mopped the floor, cleaned the bathroom, and sterilized every surface in my room. Finally, after fifteen minutes of vomiting Madonna reappeared and I changed her (like a baby) into a t-shirt and a pair of boxers.
For the rest of the night my house smelled exactly like a hospital. Caustic ammonia-based cleansers trying unsuccessfully to mask the odors of various violently expelled bodily fluids.
At 11am we finally got out of bed. I can honestly (and happily) say that I have never seen anyone leave as quickly as Madonna did. I'm not sure she said a single word to me. As a matter of fact, she left in such a hurry that she didn't even close my front door. I wish I had footage of it, she fled like a refugee.
It was at this point that I noticed that in all the excitement my dog had a nasty bout of diarrhea and sprayed the comforter, which was on the floor in the hallway, with shit. I started laughing uncontrollably. My sister walked into the hall and said "How is that...that shit and puke covered blanket funny?" I said "It isn't, but I would almost like to bring it to my dry cleaner, Mrs. Hung, to see what she says".
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