I am dragging today. And since I got a total of two hours sleep last night, it’s no wonder. As if Mondays weren’t hard enough, now I feel like I was hit by a truck.
Want to know what happened last night that kept me awake? (And get your heads out of the gutter – if I was getting action I wouldn’t be bitching to you about my lack of sleep.) Good, that’s the spirit:
OK, so last night started like any other Sunday night. I watched some tv, tried to finish up a book I was supposed to have edited last week, and eventually collapsed in exhaustion. And then, around two in the morning, it happened. A fucking nightmare.
As far as I can tell, there are three kinds of nightmares a person can have: 1) The kind that don’t wake you up, they just leave you feeling like shit the next morning while you remember (sort of) the dream, 2) The kind that wake you in the middle of the night, make you feel uneasy, but don’t stop you from getting back to sleep, and 3) The kind that wake you in the middle of the night, completely freak you out, force you to mentally calm yourself down while your heart races and your skin crawls, and then make it impossible to even begin thinking about going back to sleep. I had a code 3 dream last night.
Essentially, the gist of the dream was that I was asleep in my bed, when I realized that someone was in the room with me. Standing over me. I could hear him breathing, and just as the panic started to hit, he attacked me. I tried to fight and scream, but he was just too strong, and I wasn’t able to make any noise – although I kept trying. A classic really.
As I shot up in bed, instantly awake, I found myself in the exact same dark room and bed as my nightmare. So I scrambled to the door and turned on the light. Then I checked the closet and under the bed (I don’t care how pathetic that sounded), and only after I was satisfied that there was no one in the bedroom did I venture out into the living room. There I turned on all the lights, checked the windows, and tried to control my shaking (yes, I was shaking).
It was at this point that I think I finally accepted it had just been a dream. (Probably the fact that my cat was still asleep on the bed should have been my first clue – there’s no doubt in my mind that if a stranger was in the apartment, she would hide under the bed and let me fend for myself.) Still, I wasn’t exactly feeling calm. In fact, I was sufficiently freaked out. So I kept the lights on, got back into bed, turned on the tv to whatever awful shit is on in the middle of the night (what the fuck do insomniacs watch anyway?), and proceeded to stay awake until my alarm went off. Not my finest (or most adult) evening. But hey, at least I didn’t call my mom.
Now, I’m exhausted. No amount of coffee is going to get me through the afternoon today (I’m willing to bet), and I’m still a little uncomfortable about my dream. I mean, what the fuck? I normally never even remember my dreams. Now I have a fucking doozy of a nightmare, and I lose a night’s sleep? How do I deserve that?
So I’m torturing the rest of you with this. Have you ever had a nightmare that fucked you up into the next day? Because until last night, I hadn’t. And it’s not fun. Ugh.
Happy fucking Monday everyone.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Thursday, April 26, 2007
I Have Thoughts
I do. I have thoughts. About all kinds of things actually. Want me to prove it? OK. Here’s just SOME stuff that I’ve been thinking about lately:
-Britney Spears is fucking nuts, which is fine (although logically, I know her clothes shouldn’t bother as much as they do), except this chick has kids. I mean, fuck. Those kids don’t have a chance. What do you think they’ll score on intelligence tests in ten years? I say they top out at 70 – which WILL make them smarter than their parents. Ah, evolution.
-The Yankees are making me physically ill at this point. I’m about to see if they’ll let me pitch – I give myself a 50% chance of making the team.
-Went into Victoria’s Secret yesterday, and realized that they don’t even bother making bras that aren’t padded anymore. Kind of a ‘Fuck You’ to every woman out there who doesn’t need to (essentially) stuff her bra. After all, just because she’s big up top doesn’t mean she can’t always look bigger! Assholes.
-I need to help people more often. It gets me good stuff. Let me explain: I helped the daughter of a coworker with her college essays (out of the kindness of my heart), and now that she’s decided where she’s going – after getting into a bunch of schools (because I’m awesome) - the whole family wants to thank me. The daughter made me coconut dark chocolate chip cookies (so delicious AND my favorite), the mother took me out for drinks after work (always appreciated), and the father had a bottle of extra-special scotch shipped into the country for me (because I’m extra-special). All I can tell you about the scotch is it’s delicious (of course I tasted it right away), you can’t get it in any liquor stores around New York (or apparently the U.S.), and I can’t remember the name of it (the label is hand-printed and I’m not at home to read it to you – suffice it to say, this is not mainstream stuff). I love helping people.
-If I had to live off of one food for the rest of my life, I think it would have to be pizza. Wait, no, nachos. Mmmm, or my Dad’s ribs. Fuck, I forgot about Chinese food – all Chinese food. Goddamnit that’s a stupid question.
-My favorite word of all time (learned it in the fifth grade): pusillanimous – it means lacking courage and resolution. Say it out loud. It has such a nice rhythm to it. What? Where did you think ‘pussy’ came from? (I love language.)
-I may be paying too much to get a haircut. I mean, $200 for someone to essentially trim off my dead ends? It’s not like my hair is short and cute and needs lots of styling. Would it be a bad idea to buy a pair of good scissors and just trim my own hair? Probably.
-You know what? I truly enjoy cooking. And I’m actually really good at it. Yet, I live off of Campbell’s Tomato Soup, cheerios, Red Bull, and coffee. And no, I’m not on a diet (the women in my family pretty much top out at a size 6, so it's just not necessary). So the conclusion I’ve come to for why this is: cooking for one person sucks. Probably the worst thing about being single.
And finally:
-My friend Christine is having a bit of trouble with her roommate. And shockingly, it’s NOT because he’s a super-religious, revirginized tool. (Seriously, he has ‘reclaimed’ his virginity – a nifty trick that I made a very inappropriate joke to him about when I was told.) Nope, the trouble comes from his being a republican. And let’s just say Christine isn’t.
So, in a moment of passive-aggressive inspiration, Christine has invited me over to hang with them this weekend. Now, I’ve met the roommate, and let’s just say he wasn’t feeling the Redhead love. It might have something to do with the aforementioned inappropriate joke, or it might have to do with my walking into their place for the first time and yelling, ‘Jesus Fucking Christ!’ (What? You should see this place. Who has a duplex in the Village with their own private deck AND a skylight? How was I supposed to react?) Still, not the sort of thing you’re supposed to say in front of someone really religious. Apparently. Either way, I find it interesting that my friends use me as an instrument of revenge. And you know what? I’m not even insulted.
-Britney Spears is fucking nuts, which is fine (although logically, I know her clothes shouldn’t bother as much as they do), except this chick has kids. I mean, fuck. Those kids don’t have a chance. What do you think they’ll score on intelligence tests in ten years? I say they top out at 70 – which WILL make them smarter than their parents. Ah, evolution.
-The Yankees are making me physically ill at this point. I’m about to see if they’ll let me pitch – I give myself a 50% chance of making the team.
-Went into Victoria’s Secret yesterday, and realized that they don’t even bother making bras that aren’t padded anymore. Kind of a ‘Fuck You’ to every woman out there who doesn’t need to (essentially) stuff her bra. After all, just because she’s big up top doesn’t mean she can’t always look bigger! Assholes.
-I need to help people more often. It gets me good stuff. Let me explain: I helped the daughter of a coworker with her college essays (out of the kindness of my heart), and now that she’s decided where she’s going – after getting into a bunch of schools (because I’m awesome) - the whole family wants to thank me. The daughter made me coconut dark chocolate chip cookies (so delicious AND my favorite), the mother took me out for drinks after work (always appreciated), and the father had a bottle of extra-special scotch shipped into the country for me (because I’m extra-special). All I can tell you about the scotch is it’s delicious (of course I tasted it right away), you can’t get it in any liquor stores around New York (or apparently the U.S.), and I can’t remember the name of it (the label is hand-printed and I’m not at home to read it to you – suffice it to say, this is not mainstream stuff). I love helping people.
-If I had to live off of one food for the rest of my life, I think it would have to be pizza. Wait, no, nachos. Mmmm, or my Dad’s ribs. Fuck, I forgot about Chinese food – all Chinese food. Goddamnit that’s a stupid question.
-My favorite word of all time (learned it in the fifth grade): pusillanimous – it means lacking courage and resolution. Say it out loud. It has such a nice rhythm to it. What? Where did you think ‘pussy’ came from? (I love language.)
-I may be paying too much to get a haircut. I mean, $200 for someone to essentially trim off my dead ends? It’s not like my hair is short and cute and needs lots of styling. Would it be a bad idea to buy a pair of good scissors and just trim my own hair? Probably.
-You know what? I truly enjoy cooking. And I’m actually really good at it. Yet, I live off of Campbell’s Tomato Soup, cheerios, Red Bull, and coffee. And no, I’m not on a diet (the women in my family pretty much top out at a size 6, so it's just not necessary). So the conclusion I’ve come to for why this is: cooking for one person sucks. Probably the worst thing about being single.
And finally:
-My friend Christine is having a bit of trouble with her roommate. And shockingly, it’s NOT because he’s a super-religious, revirginized tool. (Seriously, he has ‘reclaimed’ his virginity – a nifty trick that I made a very inappropriate joke to him about when I was told.) Nope, the trouble comes from his being a republican. And let’s just say Christine isn’t.
So, in a moment of passive-aggressive inspiration, Christine has invited me over to hang with them this weekend. Now, I’ve met the roommate, and let’s just say he wasn’t feeling the Redhead love. It might have something to do with the aforementioned inappropriate joke, or it might have to do with my walking into their place for the first time and yelling, ‘Jesus Fucking Christ!’ (What? You should see this place. Who has a duplex in the Village with their own private deck AND a skylight? How was I supposed to react?) Still, not the sort of thing you’re supposed to say in front of someone really religious. Apparently. Either way, I find it interesting that my friends use me as an instrument of revenge. And you know what? I’m not even insulted.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
A Quickie
OK, I’m not putting up a real post today. Why? Because I’m fucking tired and wish I was outside right now, that’s why. BUT, I am in a giving mood, so here’s a quick story:
I’m sitting on the train this morning on my way to work – completely zoned out as usual – when this guy sits down beside me. I give him a quick glance and decide he’s cute, but at 8 in the morning I don’t really care. So I settle back into listening to my iPod and trying to read my book.
Then, two stops later, he turns to me and says, “I’m sorry, I don’t know if people actually do this, but I just wanted to tell you that you’re gorgeous.”
Um, OK. This got my attention. I turned and gave him a more thorough once over, and came to a conclusion – definitely cute, nice body, but not a chance in hell. I mean, he was wearing sunglasses. On the train. We were fucking underground for christ’s sake! Talk about a pet peeve of mine. (If you’re not the Blues Brothers, you can’t be wearing sunglasses anywhere but outside – during the day.)
So I smiled, said thanks, and then looked away. Which makes me a bitch (which we already knew), but I really think it was my only choice. After all, I’m not giving my phone number to a stranger on the train no matter what (probably). This was a no win situation for him. Yet still he did it. And I appreciated the effort – it WAS nice to hear.
In fact, it kind of made my morning. It’s always great to get a compliment – especially from a good looking guy. And I think guys out there should know that. Even if nothing comes of it, giving a woman a compliment (and just leaving it at that – the woman will let you know if she wants to continue the conversation) is always a nice thing to do. It makes her day. And that’s good karma for the man.
Food for thought. Happy Tuesday.
I’m sitting on the train this morning on my way to work – completely zoned out as usual – when this guy sits down beside me. I give him a quick glance and decide he’s cute, but at 8 in the morning I don’t really care. So I settle back into listening to my iPod and trying to read my book.
Then, two stops later, he turns to me and says, “I’m sorry, I don’t know if people actually do this, but I just wanted to tell you that you’re gorgeous.”
Um, OK. This got my attention. I turned and gave him a more thorough once over, and came to a conclusion – definitely cute, nice body, but not a chance in hell. I mean, he was wearing sunglasses. On the train. We were fucking underground for christ’s sake! Talk about a pet peeve of mine. (If you’re not the Blues Brothers, you can’t be wearing sunglasses anywhere but outside – during the day.)
So I smiled, said thanks, and then looked away. Which makes me a bitch (which we already knew), but I really think it was my only choice. After all, I’m not giving my phone number to a stranger on the train no matter what (probably). This was a no win situation for him. Yet still he did it. And I appreciated the effort – it WAS nice to hear.
In fact, it kind of made my morning. It’s always great to get a compliment – especially from a good looking guy. And I think guys out there should know that. Even if nothing comes of it, giving a woman a compliment (and just leaving it at that – the woman will let you know if she wants to continue the conversation) is always a nice thing to do. It makes her day. And that’s good karma for the man.
Food for thought. Happy Tuesday.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Blind Dates
What is everyone’s thought on the blind date? I personally am not sold on them. However, I’ll freely admit to being a fucking moron, so take what I say with a grain of salt.
Now, I’ve had some experience with blind dates – painful, all painful (and cause for giving the person who set them up a hard time). But I’ve also heard success stories. So what the fuck do I know? Hell, I even have a friend who has set up two couples that eventually got married. (And no, I won’t let her set me up.)
So I guess my question is: How socially acceptable is the blind date? Does it still reek of desperation (as I always used to think before actually growing up), or is it just a good way to meet new guys?
Here’s the thing, I’ve dated (what feels like) almost every lawyer or ‘guy working in finance’ in the city of NY, and I need to change things up. The guys I’m meeting at bars and parties all seem like the same guy, and I’ve been getting bored. (Plus, as my regular readers know, I have absolutely terrible taste in men.) So my friends are starting to move in. They’re asking to set me up. And I may be starting to let them.
Case in point, my phone rang yesterday and my friend Hannah (from the non-draft post – lives in D.C.) was on the other end. She opened with:
Hannah: I may have given your number to this guy I know. So if he calls, be nice.
Redhead: (Not even batting an eye.) What’s his name?
Hannah: Nate.
Redhead: Looks?
Hannah: Very cute. Tall, built, full head of hair. But…
Redhead: But…?
Hannah: He’s in his late 30s.
Redhead: Hmmm. That okay, I don’t mind older. Ever married?
Hannah: Nope.
Redhead: Why not?
Hannah: I don’t know. He seems to always have a girlfriend thought.
Redhead: How’d you meet him?
Hannah: He used to be roommates with Scott.
[Note: Scott is Hannah’s boyfriend. I do not trust him. He is as fucked up as a person can be, and he and Hannah fight all the time. BUT, they love each other. So as a friend I can’t really say anything – I can just bitch about him behind her back. The fact that Nate is a friend of Scott’s is not a positive in my mind.]
Redhead: Job?
Hannah: Very successful.
[Another note: She gave me an actual job here, but I already forgot it. I do remember it sounded good though.]
Redhead: Reason you gave him the number of someone who lives in NY rather than D.C.?
Hannah: He saw a picture of you when he was at my apartment and asked who you were. Scott talked you up and then had me gave him your number. So now I’m warning you he may call.
[One more note: This is interesting. Scott and I generally give each other a hard time. So while I’ve never been out and out rude to him – he IS my friend’s boyfriend – I’ve also never really been nice to him. Let’s just say I’m surprising that he would talk me up – I wouldn’t if I were him.]
Redhead: Sure. Whatever. Sounds good – I’ll be nice.
So last night, when the phone rang (and blessedly pulled me away from yelling at my baseball team), I wasn’t surprised that it was Nate. I was surprised that we hit it off right away. Basically, I found out he had played minor league ball – and really knew his baseball – and we were off and running. Two hours later I got off the phone – after promising that I would go visit Hannah (and him) – in the next month or so, and shook my head.
He’d made a good first impression.
Still, what does that mean? He may know what I look like, but I wouldn’t know him if I fell over him. And that just seems weird to me. Liking someone without actually meeting them. Strange, right?
So I’m reaching out to all of you. Is it worth investing time in phone conversations on someone before even meeting them (and seeing if there’s any chemistry)? Is that a natural new form of dating? Or is it a colossal waste of time?
Now, I’ve had some experience with blind dates – painful, all painful (and cause for giving the person who set them up a hard time). But I’ve also heard success stories. So what the fuck do I know? Hell, I even have a friend who has set up two couples that eventually got married. (And no, I won’t let her set me up.)
So I guess my question is: How socially acceptable is the blind date? Does it still reek of desperation (as I always used to think before actually growing up), or is it just a good way to meet new guys?
Here’s the thing, I’ve dated (what feels like) almost every lawyer or ‘guy working in finance’ in the city of NY, and I need to change things up. The guys I’m meeting at bars and parties all seem like the same guy, and I’ve been getting bored. (Plus, as my regular readers know, I have absolutely terrible taste in men.) So my friends are starting to move in. They’re asking to set me up. And I may be starting to let them.
Case in point, my phone rang yesterday and my friend Hannah (from the non-draft post – lives in D.C.) was on the other end. She opened with:
Hannah: I may have given your number to this guy I know. So if he calls, be nice.
Redhead: (Not even batting an eye.) What’s his name?
Hannah: Nate.
Redhead: Looks?
Hannah: Very cute. Tall, built, full head of hair. But…
Redhead: But…?
Hannah: He’s in his late 30s.
Redhead: Hmmm. That okay, I don’t mind older. Ever married?
Hannah: Nope.
Redhead: Why not?
Hannah: I don’t know. He seems to always have a girlfriend thought.
Redhead: How’d you meet him?
Hannah: He used to be roommates with Scott.
[Note: Scott is Hannah’s boyfriend. I do not trust him. He is as fucked up as a person can be, and he and Hannah fight all the time. BUT, they love each other. So as a friend I can’t really say anything – I can just bitch about him behind her back. The fact that Nate is a friend of Scott’s is not a positive in my mind.]
Redhead: Job?
Hannah: Very successful.
[Another note: She gave me an actual job here, but I already forgot it. I do remember it sounded good though.]
Redhead: Reason you gave him the number of someone who lives in NY rather than D.C.?
Hannah: He saw a picture of you when he was at my apartment and asked who you were. Scott talked you up and then had me gave him your number. So now I’m warning you he may call.
[One more note: This is interesting. Scott and I generally give each other a hard time. So while I’ve never been out and out rude to him – he IS my friend’s boyfriend – I’ve also never really been nice to him. Let’s just say I’m surprising that he would talk me up – I wouldn’t if I were him.]
Redhead: Sure. Whatever. Sounds good – I’ll be nice.
So last night, when the phone rang (and blessedly pulled me away from yelling at my baseball team), I wasn’t surprised that it was Nate. I was surprised that we hit it off right away. Basically, I found out he had played minor league ball – and really knew his baseball – and we were off and running. Two hours later I got off the phone – after promising that I would go visit Hannah (and him) – in the next month or so, and shook my head.
He’d made a good first impression.
Still, what does that mean? He may know what I look like, but I wouldn’t know him if I fell over him. And that just seems weird to me. Liking someone without actually meeting them. Strange, right?
So I’m reaching out to all of you. Is it worth investing time in phone conversations on someone before even meeting them (and seeing if there’s any chemistry)? Is that a natural new form of dating? Or is it a colossal waste of time?
Thursday, April 19, 2007
I Can Be Cruel
Yet another story from years ago – this one I was reminded of last night when a friend did something similar (and called me LATE at night – after I’d suffered through another freezing game in the Bronx – to talk about it). She felt bad and I commiserated – but didn’t volunteer my own story to make her feel better.
I’m a bitch.
That doesn’t mean I won’t share the story with my readers though. In fact, it will be good to get this one off my chest – I haven’t really known what to make of it since it happened anyway. Just keep in mind, I was young and stupid then – so don’t judge me:
Several years ago my parents decided to take everyone on a cruise. The family used to go on cruises once or twice a year when I was younger, but as everyone grew up and went away to school/graduated and got jobs, my parents stopped taking us. They kept going away. They just stopped inviting us along.
Anyway, with all of us out of school and working, finding a time when everyone could get away was hard. But we managed. And before I knew it we were in Europe aboard a ship. It was beautiful, nice to have everyone together, and relaxing. And I needed a vacation – I had just broken up with my boyfriend. We’d dated for a while, and while I was happy to see him go, it was still stressful. So what I needed were naps, lots of good food, and many massages.
I was in the right place.
I guess it was about three or four days into the cruise when I noticed this guy. He was an officer on the ship (and had the cute white uniform to prove it), and he kept watching me. Whenever I saw him he would be looking at me. And he was scrumptious.
Not only did he have the uniform, but he was JUST MY TYPE. By my type, I mean he was tall, lean, and he had blonde hair. I have a thing for blonde hair. (I would later find out he was from Norway – let’s just say he looked like he would be from Norway.)
But I decided he was off-limits. Why? Well, I was on vacation with my family, I had just gotten out of a relationship, and I did not need a guy. I needed a break from guys. So I pushed Blondie to the back of my mind.
A little over a week into the trip, I knew I had made the right decision. I was having a great time. How had I forgotten how much I LOVED cruises? I love lying around all day, I love stopping in for quick look-sees at different ports, and I love just standing on the deck looking out at the ocean all around me. But most of all, I love the evenings. I love getting dressed up every night, going for drinks before dinner, and going to the casino after dinner. It’s decadent and perfect.
I didn’t need anything else. Well, except for maybe…
One night after dinner I walked into the casino. Still in my formal dress, I saw my sister across the room at a blackjack table. As I started to make my way towards her, I noticed a blonde head sitting to her right. Hmmm.
Sneaking up behind my sister, I tapped her on the shoulder and quickly stole a glance to her right. Yup, it was Blondie in his formal uniform. Uh-oh – he looked good enough to eat.
After a quick chat with my sister, I settled back to just watch them play (my luck in the casino during that cruise was beyond awful). And somehow Blondie and I got to talking. He had a charming little accent, blue eyes, and dimples. I was in trouble.
Not helping things was the fact that I’d had a drink before dinner, a couple glasses of wine with dinner, and I was sipping on some Chambord at the casino (after-dinner drinks almost never work, but on a cruise they’re practically required). Either way, I was under the influence – I had spaced things out enough to not be drunk, but I wasn’t sober.
All of a sudden Blondie and I weren’t just talking, we were flirting. My sister noted this and excused herself. I didn’t leave with her. Instead I stayed with the man. (Big mistake.)
At some point we wandered from the casino to the nightclub, and from the nightclub to his room. I honestly don’t even remember how it happened. But however it did happen, I somehow found myself sitting on the couch in his room, and we were kissing.
And it was weird.
Don’t get me wrong, he was gorgeous. He knew what he was doing. But it was weird.
His tongue felt too big. His hair felt strange. His body – which was perfect – felt odd. ‘He doesn’t feel like [my ex]’ I thought.
Where did that come from? What a ridiculous thought. And what the fuck was I doing thinking about ANYTHING, much less my ex, at that moment anyway?
I mean, sure, it made sense that I would find it a little strange to kiss a new guy after kissing someone else for the previous two years. But eventually I’d get swept up in the moment and my brain would shut down. Right?
So I waited. I waited to get swept up in the moment. His kissing technique was great, I thought. He was sexy, I thought. He was doing everything right, I thought.
So then why was I still in my own head?
Shit. Keep trying.
I kept trying as he unzipped my dress. I kept trying as I unbuttoned his jacket. I kept trying as we moved to the bed. I kept trying while my hand was down his fucking pants. And all the while, I was thinking, ‘I’m not enjoying this.’
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed a break. Sitting up in the bed, I said something about using the bathroom and escaped.
Closing and locking the door behind me, I turned and stared at myself in the mirror. I was not wearing a whole lot at that point, but it was my eyes that I was concentrating on. Nope, no answers there.
With a sigh I turned, and sat on the edge of the tub. I just needed to think about things logically. If I wasn’t enjoying myself, then I should just stop. Right?
Ugh, but I couldn’t leave at that point! I was not (and I hate this word, but what else really applies here?) a cocktease.
[Note: I don’t believe in owing a person anything. Just because a guy buys me dinner or a drink doesn’t mean I owe him anything more than a thank you. I also don’t believe in rules like ‘you need to go on three dates with someone before sleeping with them,’ etc. My whole theory is and has always been: Do what you want and what you’re comfortable (and can live) with. As long as everyone involved is a consenting adult, who cares what anyone else thinks. Period. Now, having said that, I don’t generally try to give men the impression that they’re going to get something when they’re not. So this situation had become a bit of a moral dilemma.]
After about three minutes, I took a deep breath and went back into the bedroom. I needed to man-up and make a decision. Either go through with it or ends things right then.
And there was Blondie, stretched out on the bed in his unbuttoned pants and nothing else. Long, tanned, and hot as hell.
Wait, what was the problem?
So I walked over to the bed and crawled on top of him. I started kissing him again, thinking everything was solved. Only his lips still felt strange. His hands still felt weird.
What the fuck?!
Trying to calm down and STOP THINKING, I felt momentary relief when he pulled my hair a little bit and kissed my neck – I love that. Only…shit, it wasn’t working. That trick always works!
OK, no problem. Leaning over I kissed his neck, nibbled on his ear, started kissing my way down his chest, and…
He chucked, said something in Norwegian (I’m assuming) and rolled me on my back. And then he was kissing me everywhere again. Only that left me with nothing to do. I couldn’t just lie there – that left entirely too much time for thinking and concentrating on relaxing.
Just as I thought I was getting a handle on the situation, he started to move south. And one thought jumped into my head and sent me into panic mode – ‘No way. Much, much too personal – not gonna happen.’
So, as he headed…down, I half sat up and said, “I think I should go.”
Just like that. No explanation. Nothing. I said it, scrambled off the bed, grabbed my dress and slipped it on, and scurried to the door. Then I stopped.
Agh, what was I doing? I couldn’t just leave like that? I couldn’t turn into THAT girl? I had to at least say something.
So I turned and looked over at him – sitting in the middle of the bed looking all beautiful and confused – and opened my mouth to at least say I was sorry. But nothing came out.
Feeling like the biggest pussy in the world, I just turned the knob and left. I totally wimped out. I froze under pressure (and I NEVER do that – I am fucking great under pressure)! I turned into someone I would usually mock. And it sucked.
Needless to say, I avoided Blondie like the plague for the rest of the cruise – which did mess with my relaxation plan quite a bit. But I deserved it.
And…that’s it. That’s the story. I have never, ever told anyone about this. Ever. So do me a favor – after you read this, feel free to comment a little bit, and then banish it from your mind forever. Because it never happened. Got it?
I’m a bitch.
That doesn’t mean I won’t share the story with my readers though. In fact, it will be good to get this one off my chest – I haven’t really known what to make of it since it happened anyway. Just keep in mind, I was young and stupid then – so don’t judge me:
Several years ago my parents decided to take everyone on a cruise. The family used to go on cruises once or twice a year when I was younger, but as everyone grew up and went away to school/graduated and got jobs, my parents stopped taking us. They kept going away. They just stopped inviting us along.
Anyway, with all of us out of school and working, finding a time when everyone could get away was hard. But we managed. And before I knew it we were in Europe aboard a ship. It was beautiful, nice to have everyone together, and relaxing. And I needed a vacation – I had just broken up with my boyfriend. We’d dated for a while, and while I was happy to see him go, it was still stressful. So what I needed were naps, lots of good food, and many massages.
I was in the right place.
I guess it was about three or four days into the cruise when I noticed this guy. He was an officer on the ship (and had the cute white uniform to prove it), and he kept watching me. Whenever I saw him he would be looking at me. And he was scrumptious.
Not only did he have the uniform, but he was JUST MY TYPE. By my type, I mean he was tall, lean, and he had blonde hair. I have a thing for blonde hair. (I would later find out he was from Norway – let’s just say he looked like he would be from Norway.)
But I decided he was off-limits. Why? Well, I was on vacation with my family, I had just gotten out of a relationship, and I did not need a guy. I needed a break from guys. So I pushed Blondie to the back of my mind.
A little over a week into the trip, I knew I had made the right decision. I was having a great time. How had I forgotten how much I LOVED cruises? I love lying around all day, I love stopping in for quick look-sees at different ports, and I love just standing on the deck looking out at the ocean all around me. But most of all, I love the evenings. I love getting dressed up every night, going for drinks before dinner, and going to the casino after dinner. It’s decadent and perfect.
I didn’t need anything else. Well, except for maybe…
One night after dinner I walked into the casino. Still in my formal dress, I saw my sister across the room at a blackjack table. As I started to make my way towards her, I noticed a blonde head sitting to her right. Hmmm.
Sneaking up behind my sister, I tapped her on the shoulder and quickly stole a glance to her right. Yup, it was Blondie in his formal uniform. Uh-oh – he looked good enough to eat.
After a quick chat with my sister, I settled back to just watch them play (my luck in the casino during that cruise was beyond awful). And somehow Blondie and I got to talking. He had a charming little accent, blue eyes, and dimples. I was in trouble.
Not helping things was the fact that I’d had a drink before dinner, a couple glasses of wine with dinner, and I was sipping on some Chambord at the casino (after-dinner drinks almost never work, but on a cruise they’re practically required). Either way, I was under the influence – I had spaced things out enough to not be drunk, but I wasn’t sober.
All of a sudden Blondie and I weren’t just talking, we were flirting. My sister noted this and excused herself. I didn’t leave with her. Instead I stayed with the man. (Big mistake.)
At some point we wandered from the casino to the nightclub, and from the nightclub to his room. I honestly don’t even remember how it happened. But however it did happen, I somehow found myself sitting on the couch in his room, and we were kissing.
And it was weird.
Don’t get me wrong, he was gorgeous. He knew what he was doing. But it was weird.
His tongue felt too big. His hair felt strange. His body – which was perfect – felt odd. ‘He doesn’t feel like [my ex]’ I thought.
Where did that come from? What a ridiculous thought. And what the fuck was I doing thinking about ANYTHING, much less my ex, at that moment anyway?
I mean, sure, it made sense that I would find it a little strange to kiss a new guy after kissing someone else for the previous two years. But eventually I’d get swept up in the moment and my brain would shut down. Right?
So I waited. I waited to get swept up in the moment. His kissing technique was great, I thought. He was sexy, I thought. He was doing everything right, I thought.
So then why was I still in my own head?
Shit. Keep trying.
I kept trying as he unzipped my dress. I kept trying as I unbuttoned his jacket. I kept trying as we moved to the bed. I kept trying while my hand was down his fucking pants. And all the while, I was thinking, ‘I’m not enjoying this.’
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed a break. Sitting up in the bed, I said something about using the bathroom and escaped.
Closing and locking the door behind me, I turned and stared at myself in the mirror. I was not wearing a whole lot at that point, but it was my eyes that I was concentrating on. Nope, no answers there.
With a sigh I turned, and sat on the edge of the tub. I just needed to think about things logically. If I wasn’t enjoying myself, then I should just stop. Right?
Ugh, but I couldn’t leave at that point! I was not (and I hate this word, but what else really applies here?) a cocktease.
[Note: I don’t believe in owing a person anything. Just because a guy buys me dinner or a drink doesn’t mean I owe him anything more than a thank you. I also don’t believe in rules like ‘you need to go on three dates with someone before sleeping with them,’ etc. My whole theory is and has always been: Do what you want and what you’re comfortable (and can live) with. As long as everyone involved is a consenting adult, who cares what anyone else thinks. Period. Now, having said that, I don’t generally try to give men the impression that they’re going to get something when they’re not. So this situation had become a bit of a moral dilemma.]
After about three minutes, I took a deep breath and went back into the bedroom. I needed to man-up and make a decision. Either go through with it or ends things right then.
And there was Blondie, stretched out on the bed in his unbuttoned pants and nothing else. Long, tanned, and hot as hell.
Wait, what was the problem?
So I walked over to the bed and crawled on top of him. I started kissing him again, thinking everything was solved. Only his lips still felt strange. His hands still felt weird.
What the fuck?!
Trying to calm down and STOP THINKING, I felt momentary relief when he pulled my hair a little bit and kissed my neck – I love that. Only…shit, it wasn’t working. That trick always works!
OK, no problem. Leaning over I kissed his neck, nibbled on his ear, started kissing my way down his chest, and…
He chucked, said something in Norwegian (I’m assuming) and rolled me on my back. And then he was kissing me everywhere again. Only that left me with nothing to do. I couldn’t just lie there – that left entirely too much time for thinking and concentrating on relaxing.
Just as I thought I was getting a handle on the situation, he started to move south. And one thought jumped into my head and sent me into panic mode – ‘No way. Much, much too personal – not gonna happen.’
So, as he headed…down, I half sat up and said, “I think I should go.”
Just like that. No explanation. Nothing. I said it, scrambled off the bed, grabbed my dress and slipped it on, and scurried to the door. Then I stopped.
Agh, what was I doing? I couldn’t just leave like that? I couldn’t turn into THAT girl? I had to at least say something.
So I turned and looked over at him – sitting in the middle of the bed looking all beautiful and confused – and opened my mouth to at least say I was sorry. But nothing came out.
Feeling like the biggest pussy in the world, I just turned the knob and left. I totally wimped out. I froze under pressure (and I NEVER do that – I am fucking great under pressure)! I turned into someone I would usually mock. And it sucked.
Needless to say, I avoided Blondie like the plague for the rest of the cruise – which did mess with my relaxation plan quite a bit. But I deserved it.
And…that’s it. That’s the story. I have never, ever told anyone about this. Ever. So do me a favor – after you read this, feel free to comment a little bit, and then banish it from your mind forever. Because it never happened. Got it?
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
The Engagement Party
I set the stage yesterday for the engagement party story, so read that before jumping in here. And now, let another Drunk Redhead story begin:
My parents were throwing the engagement party for Brother and SIL, and no one throws a party like my parents. Fully catered and held at our (actually, their) house, my parents pulled out all the stops. (My father is the type who would be mortified if a person wanted anything at one of his parties and it wasn’t readily available.) That means that there were three (yes, three) separate, fully-stocked bars set up around the first floor of the house, and food galore. Platters of finger foods were laid on all available tables, waitstaff were circulating (and were under orders never to tell anyone they were out of anything), and a full spread was set up in the dining room for those who wanted to actually eat something substantial.
The house looked beautiful, the atmosphere was relaxed, and I was dressed to kill. Stud was going to notice me. Period.
I had bought a gorgeous dress that was classy enough to make my dad happy – it covered me from the tops of my breasts to my knees – and sexy enough to make me happy – strapless and fitted to every curve from the tops of my breasts to my knees. It showed me off my body to perfection (and that has always been a particular strength, thank you very much).
The shoes were killer stilettos, the makeup was smoky eyes and glossy lips, and the hair was straightened. I never straighten my hair because it takes forever and it’s perfectly nice in its natural wavy/loose curls state, but for Stud I made an exception.
Now, my hair is long under normal circumstances, but when straightened it’s really long. File that info away for later.
So yes, I was ready to knock Stud out, and everyone in my family knew I was excited to see him. SIL was curious as hell, since she had never met Stud before but had gotten a rundown on him from both me and Brother. And while you know how I feel about Stud, Brother’s opinion is less glowing. Because while Stud was always a good friend, he was not ‘dating the sister’ material. I don’t know, something about being ‘completely undependable’ and ‘possibly gay.’
I know, I can’t just throw that out and not explain. OK, the ‘completely undependable’ part was common knowledge (and totally irrelevant to me 5 years ago – and possibly still today), and the ‘possibly gay’ thing was all conjecture. There was never anything really specific to back up that theory. Stud was in no way effeminate. He never showed any interest (in that way) toward men. It was just that…he never really showed any interest in women either. He dated them (women), but never for long. He never talked about them. He just didn’t seem to care, which I guess makes some guys (and girls) wonder. But not me. I had faith that no man as hot as Stud could be gay. (Yes, I’m a moron.)
But either way, I would know for sure by the end of the engagement party. Because I was dressed to kill, and Stud would HAVE to be gay not to notice. (Seriously, I wasn’t fucking around – I can’t physically look much better than I did that night.)
So the party started. I had a drink that I was nursing as I made the rounds talking to my parents’ friends, Brother’s friends, and my sister (who I strongly suspect was just waiting for me to do something stupid). But after about an hour, Jen and I teamed up. And we started drinking a bit more seriously.
I was maybe three drinks in when Stud showed up. I was in the sitting room, and SIL came in and whispered to me that he was there. Literally breaking off a conversation I was having with an old high school teacher (who was also Brother’s soccer coach way back when), I made my way to the front foyer. And there he was.
I hadn’t seen him since middle school, but I would have recognized him anywhere. Tall, lean, with that gorgeous light brown hair and green eyes that I remembered so well. I barely knew what to do with myself. I think a little part of me had wondered if I would still find him as attractive as I used to. I did.
Now, I’m not all that aggressive with men. I’m not shy, but I never make the first move. I flirt, and I respond to flirting, but I’m never overt. I don’t fawn.
I fawned. I practically fucking drooled. I went over, said hi, and then proceeded to follow Stud around. I didn’t leave his side. I volunteered to get him drinks. I offered to introduce him to anyone he wanted. Basically, I threw my pride out the window.
And I drank. Jen kept bringing me drinks while she watched, along with Jim, SIL, Brother, my sister, my parents, and many other people. It was sad. I couldn’t have been more obvious. And I just didn’t care.
Stud, true to form, was being nice to me but couldn’t have seemed less interested. I looked hot, and he didn’t care. And it was bumming me out – so I kept drinking. Thanks to all that alcohol, I was sufficiently stupid enough to not get the hint and give up.
On a trip to the bar in my father’s study, Jen and I were plotting. As we approached the bar, which had beautiful votive candles on it, I guess I leaned in too close. And since my hair was longer than it normally is (straightened) it caught fire.
Now it wasn’t THAT bad. Really only about two hairs went up, but they were lonnnggg hairs. It was almost like a magic trick. Poof. A fraction of a second at the most, and then it was done. Really it wasn’t a big deal. You would never have known it had happened. If it weren’t for the shocked looks on the bartender and Jen’s faces and the smell of burnt hair of course.
Unfortunately, my father chose that exact moment to walk in. Wandering through the door, he took a sniff and blandly looked at me as he said, “Redhead, what am I smelling?”
“Redhead just lit her hair on fire,” Jen blurted out, before running from the room.
Agh. The look on my father’s face was so sad because he didn’t even look surprised. He just shook his head, told me to slow down with the drinking, and walked out.
I, of course, needed a drink after that – I'd had a traumatic experience. So I ordered a Bailey’s (which is just yummy but something I never drink). The thought here is that it would comfort me.
As I emerged into the living room with my drink, it became clear that Jen had spread the word of my little accident. People were looking at me curiously, and I was feeling even more stupid. I needed to escape.
Just then Jim approached me. He (and in fact all of SIL’s family) understands stupid drunk. Which is a blessing. Also, I think he was in need of some entertainment.
So he invited me outside for a cigarette with him and Stud. No one in my family knows I smoke (because I don’t want them to), but somehow Jim knew. I MAY have told him in one of my drunken moments.
Either way, I should have said no. I didn’t need to have a cigarette at my parents’ house. I didn’t need for them to know what a complete and total moron I was for smoking. But did I say no? Of course not.
We went out onto the front porch, and lit up. I’m not sure why I did it. Maybe I just wanted to spend some more time with Stud. Maybe I just wanted a cigarette. Either way, I was leaning against the front door smoking when my dad opened it. And I fell through the entranceway into the foyer. On my back. Kind of like a turtle.
Thankfully I was aware enough (yeah right) to chuck the cigarette off the porch as the door opened. So it may have looked like I was just hanging out on the front stoop with the guys while they smoked. Not sure what my dad thought at that point. I just got another head shake.
As my dad helped me up, said goodbye to the people who were leaving (hence, why he opened the door), and turned away, Jen slipped outside and closed the door behind her. At this point she was sloppy drunk. It took her all of 30 seconds to step off the front porch – backwards, into the bushes. As she disappeared into the shrubbery, Jim (who had a few drinks in him as well), yelled “Jen, I’ve got you!” and jumped into the bushes after her.
It was funny. It was stupid. And Stud didn’t seem impressed (party pooper). So he trooped back inside while I helped Jim and Jen out of the bushes and back onto the porch. Then I followed my prey inside (like I said – no pride).
I found him in my dad’s study. Being a glutton for punishment, I went in for the kill. I got touchy-feely. Nothing crazy, but I was touching his arm, getting close, basically just invading his personal space and sending out very clear signals (like I hadn’t been doing that all night).
And, um, nothing happened. He did nothing. He just wasn’t interested. Nice, but uninterested. And with that, I was done. I had no more cards to play. Because no amount of alcohol can get me to kiss a guy first. So I had to concede defeat. No phone numbers were exchanged. No long-held dreams were fulfilled. Nada.
On the plus side, the party eventually (and mercifully) ended. My family got a good laugh out of my behavior, and I (thankfully) didn’t throw up on anyone or anything. A relatively tame Drunk Redhead story actually. But it still haunts me.
I was such a dork, and was so totally and completely rejected. I never got my kiss. Never got Stud in any way actually.
But something positive did come from that night. Not only did I promise Brother and SIL that I wouldn’t drink too much at their wedding (which I didn’t), but I learned just a little bit more about drinking. And limits. And while it might not seem like it in this blog, I really don’t get stupid drunk anymore. I learned my lesson. After many, many wrong turns.
So now you know another story of one of those wrong turns. My gift to you. Another Drunk Redhead story. Hope you enjoyed it.
My parents were throwing the engagement party for Brother and SIL, and no one throws a party like my parents. Fully catered and held at our (actually, their) house, my parents pulled out all the stops. (My father is the type who would be mortified if a person wanted anything at one of his parties and it wasn’t readily available.) That means that there were three (yes, three) separate, fully-stocked bars set up around the first floor of the house, and food galore. Platters of finger foods were laid on all available tables, waitstaff were circulating (and were under orders never to tell anyone they were out of anything), and a full spread was set up in the dining room for those who wanted to actually eat something substantial.
The house looked beautiful, the atmosphere was relaxed, and I was dressed to kill. Stud was going to notice me. Period.
I had bought a gorgeous dress that was classy enough to make my dad happy – it covered me from the tops of my breasts to my knees – and sexy enough to make me happy – strapless and fitted to every curve from the tops of my breasts to my knees. It showed me off my body to perfection (and that has always been a particular strength, thank you very much).
The shoes were killer stilettos, the makeup was smoky eyes and glossy lips, and the hair was straightened. I never straighten my hair because it takes forever and it’s perfectly nice in its natural wavy/loose curls state, but for Stud I made an exception.
Now, my hair is long under normal circumstances, but when straightened it’s really long. File that info away for later.
So yes, I was ready to knock Stud out, and everyone in my family knew I was excited to see him. SIL was curious as hell, since she had never met Stud before but had gotten a rundown on him from both me and Brother. And while you know how I feel about Stud, Brother’s opinion is less glowing. Because while Stud was always a good friend, he was not ‘dating the sister’ material. I don’t know, something about being ‘completely undependable’ and ‘possibly gay.’
I know, I can’t just throw that out and not explain. OK, the ‘completely undependable’ part was common knowledge (and totally irrelevant to me 5 years ago – and possibly still today), and the ‘possibly gay’ thing was all conjecture. There was never anything really specific to back up that theory. Stud was in no way effeminate. He never showed any interest (in that way) toward men. It was just that…he never really showed any interest in women either. He dated them (women), but never for long. He never talked about them. He just didn’t seem to care, which I guess makes some guys (and girls) wonder. But not me. I had faith that no man as hot as Stud could be gay. (Yes, I’m a moron.)
But either way, I would know for sure by the end of the engagement party. Because I was dressed to kill, and Stud would HAVE to be gay not to notice. (Seriously, I wasn’t fucking around – I can’t physically look much better than I did that night.)
So the party started. I had a drink that I was nursing as I made the rounds talking to my parents’ friends, Brother’s friends, and my sister (who I strongly suspect was just waiting for me to do something stupid). But after about an hour, Jen and I teamed up. And we started drinking a bit more seriously.
I was maybe three drinks in when Stud showed up. I was in the sitting room, and SIL came in and whispered to me that he was there. Literally breaking off a conversation I was having with an old high school teacher (who was also Brother’s soccer coach way back when), I made my way to the front foyer. And there he was.
I hadn’t seen him since middle school, but I would have recognized him anywhere. Tall, lean, with that gorgeous light brown hair and green eyes that I remembered so well. I barely knew what to do with myself. I think a little part of me had wondered if I would still find him as attractive as I used to. I did.
Now, I’m not all that aggressive with men. I’m not shy, but I never make the first move. I flirt, and I respond to flirting, but I’m never overt. I don’t fawn.
I fawned. I practically fucking drooled. I went over, said hi, and then proceeded to follow Stud around. I didn’t leave his side. I volunteered to get him drinks. I offered to introduce him to anyone he wanted. Basically, I threw my pride out the window.
And I drank. Jen kept bringing me drinks while she watched, along with Jim, SIL, Brother, my sister, my parents, and many other people. It was sad. I couldn’t have been more obvious. And I just didn’t care.
Stud, true to form, was being nice to me but couldn’t have seemed less interested. I looked hot, and he didn’t care. And it was bumming me out – so I kept drinking. Thanks to all that alcohol, I was sufficiently stupid enough to not get the hint and give up.
On a trip to the bar in my father’s study, Jen and I were plotting. As we approached the bar, which had beautiful votive candles on it, I guess I leaned in too close. And since my hair was longer than it normally is (straightened) it caught fire.
Now it wasn’t THAT bad. Really only about two hairs went up, but they were lonnnggg hairs. It was almost like a magic trick. Poof. A fraction of a second at the most, and then it was done. Really it wasn’t a big deal. You would never have known it had happened. If it weren’t for the shocked looks on the bartender and Jen’s faces and the smell of burnt hair of course.
Unfortunately, my father chose that exact moment to walk in. Wandering through the door, he took a sniff and blandly looked at me as he said, “Redhead, what am I smelling?”
“Redhead just lit her hair on fire,” Jen blurted out, before running from the room.
Agh. The look on my father’s face was so sad because he didn’t even look surprised. He just shook his head, told me to slow down with the drinking, and walked out.
I, of course, needed a drink after that – I'd had a traumatic experience. So I ordered a Bailey’s (which is just yummy but something I never drink). The thought here is that it would comfort me.
As I emerged into the living room with my drink, it became clear that Jen had spread the word of my little accident. People were looking at me curiously, and I was feeling even more stupid. I needed to escape.
Just then Jim approached me. He (and in fact all of SIL’s family) understands stupid drunk. Which is a blessing. Also, I think he was in need of some entertainment.
So he invited me outside for a cigarette with him and Stud. No one in my family knows I smoke (because I don’t want them to), but somehow Jim knew. I MAY have told him in one of my drunken moments.
Either way, I should have said no. I didn’t need to have a cigarette at my parents’ house. I didn’t need for them to know what a complete and total moron I was for smoking. But did I say no? Of course not.
We went out onto the front porch, and lit up. I’m not sure why I did it. Maybe I just wanted to spend some more time with Stud. Maybe I just wanted a cigarette. Either way, I was leaning against the front door smoking when my dad opened it. And I fell through the entranceway into the foyer. On my back. Kind of like a turtle.
Thankfully I was aware enough (yeah right) to chuck the cigarette off the porch as the door opened. So it may have looked like I was just hanging out on the front stoop with the guys while they smoked. Not sure what my dad thought at that point. I just got another head shake.
As my dad helped me up, said goodbye to the people who were leaving (hence, why he opened the door), and turned away, Jen slipped outside and closed the door behind her. At this point she was sloppy drunk. It took her all of 30 seconds to step off the front porch – backwards, into the bushes. As she disappeared into the shrubbery, Jim (who had a few drinks in him as well), yelled “Jen, I’ve got you!” and jumped into the bushes after her.
It was funny. It was stupid. And Stud didn’t seem impressed (party pooper). So he trooped back inside while I helped Jim and Jen out of the bushes and back onto the porch. Then I followed my prey inside (like I said – no pride).
I found him in my dad’s study. Being a glutton for punishment, I went in for the kill. I got touchy-feely. Nothing crazy, but I was touching his arm, getting close, basically just invading his personal space and sending out very clear signals (like I hadn’t been doing that all night).
And, um, nothing happened. He did nothing. He just wasn’t interested. Nice, but uninterested. And with that, I was done. I had no more cards to play. Because no amount of alcohol can get me to kiss a guy first. So I had to concede defeat. No phone numbers were exchanged. No long-held dreams were fulfilled. Nada.
On the plus side, the party eventually (and mercifully) ended. My family got a good laugh out of my behavior, and I (thankfully) didn’t throw up on anyone or anything. A relatively tame Drunk Redhead story actually. But it still haunts me.
I was such a dork, and was so totally and completely rejected. I never got my kiss. Never got Stud in any way actually.
But something positive did come from that night. Not only did I promise Brother and SIL that I wouldn’t drink too much at their wedding (which I didn’t), but I learned just a little bit more about drinking. And limits. And while it might not seem like it in this blog, I really don’t get stupid drunk anymore. I learned my lesson. After many, many wrong turns.
So now you know another story of one of those wrong turns. My gift to you. Another Drunk Redhead story. Hope you enjoyed it.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Intro to Tomorrow’s Drunk Story
What is with the fucking rain in NY? If it weren’t so cold I don’t think I’d mind that much – surprisingly I don’t melt when I get wet – but this is ridiculous. I’m freezing.
(Oh, and for any of my regular readers – all two of you – who have been following the saga of Guy #2, I thought I’d catch you up: he actually called me again over the weekend. It seems that he broke up with his girlfriend and wants to see me, proving 1) he totally is missing the point of why I wasn’t calling him back, 2) he might be insane, and 3) I really must be as good a kisser as my exes say.)
Anyway, I’m going to tell another drunk story tomorrow. But in the meantime – to keep that post from being disgustingly long – I thought I’d set it up a little bit today and introduce the main players. (As usual, all names are being changed to protect the innocent.) So here goes:
My brother and his wife recently had their second child in less than two years. And while that makes me think they’re freaking insane, it’s also awesome. Mainly it’s awesome because they produce fucking cool kids, but it’s also awesome because they’re loosing their minds right now trying to take care of two kids under the age of two.
So as I watch them settling into domestic bliss (or madness), I can’t help but think back to how it all began. Specifically, the story I’m going to tell took place at their engagement party five years ago.
Without further ado, the people you should know for this story are:
Brother – let’s not complicate things, my brother will just be called Brother here. I’ve mentioned him before, and (sadly) he’s been witness/instigator to many a Drunk Redhead story. He’s actually completely awesome, but he is my older brother so I’ve been tortured by him in the past. A lot.
SIL – this actually stands for sister-in-law. Of course, she wasn’t my sister-in-law at the time of this story, but do you honestly care? SIL is very, very cool. She was one of the only girlfriends Brother ever introduced me to who wasn’t either a vegetarian or on a diet. In fact, first time I met her was at a pub, and she ordered a burger, fries, and several Guinness’. She’s smart and extraordinarily successful, and she can drink me under the table (100% Irish). So except for the fact that she actually enjoys exercising and doesn’t like dogs (I know, that’s a huge strike against her), she’s cool. She can hang.
Jim – SIL’s brother. A great drinker, fucking hysterical, seems to get me into trouble whenever our families hang out.
Jen – Jim’s wife. A cute, tiny little blonde thing. She and Jim got married pretty young, come from the same small town as SIL (obviously), but unlike SIL never left. Genuinely nice but a sloppy drunk.
Stud – there’s just no other name I can give him. Stud went to high school with Brother, was co-captain of the soccer and lacrosse teams with him, and therefore was always at our house. He was my uber-crush. He was incredibly popular in school, too beautiful for words, and four years older than I was (and am). I worshipped him. I couldn’t get enough of him. And everyone (I repeat – everyone) knew it. And while Stud couldn’t have cared less about me, I always wanted him. So while I hadn’t seen him since I was 14 (and he graduated and went off to college), I’ll admit I never forgot him.
So, back to Brother and SIL’s engagement party. Stud was coming. No one had seen him in a long time (he moved to LA after college and worked at a magazine there), but he had just moved back. Brother extended an invite, and Stud said yes. He would be there – and he would be coming alone. Stud was single. And I had finally grown up.
What could possibly go wrong?
(Oh, and for any of my regular readers – all two of you – who have been following the saga of Guy #2, I thought I’d catch you up: he actually called me again over the weekend. It seems that he broke up with his girlfriend and wants to see me, proving 1) he totally is missing the point of why I wasn’t calling him back, 2) he might be insane, and 3) I really must be as good a kisser as my exes say.)
Anyway, I’m going to tell another drunk story tomorrow. But in the meantime – to keep that post from being disgustingly long – I thought I’d set it up a little bit today and introduce the main players. (As usual, all names are being changed to protect the innocent.) So here goes:
My brother and his wife recently had their second child in less than two years. And while that makes me think they’re freaking insane, it’s also awesome. Mainly it’s awesome because they produce fucking cool kids, but it’s also awesome because they’re loosing their minds right now trying to take care of two kids under the age of two.
So as I watch them settling into domestic bliss (or madness), I can’t help but think back to how it all began. Specifically, the story I’m going to tell took place at their engagement party five years ago.
Without further ado, the people you should know for this story are:
Brother – let’s not complicate things, my brother will just be called Brother here. I’ve mentioned him before, and (sadly) he’s been witness/instigator to many a Drunk Redhead story. He’s actually completely awesome, but he is my older brother so I’ve been tortured by him in the past. A lot.
SIL – this actually stands for sister-in-law. Of course, she wasn’t my sister-in-law at the time of this story, but do you honestly care? SIL is very, very cool. She was one of the only girlfriends Brother ever introduced me to who wasn’t either a vegetarian or on a diet. In fact, first time I met her was at a pub, and she ordered a burger, fries, and several Guinness’. She’s smart and extraordinarily successful, and she can drink me under the table (100% Irish). So except for the fact that she actually enjoys exercising and doesn’t like dogs (I know, that’s a huge strike against her), she’s cool. She can hang.
Jim – SIL’s brother. A great drinker, fucking hysterical, seems to get me into trouble whenever our families hang out.
Jen – Jim’s wife. A cute, tiny little blonde thing. She and Jim got married pretty young, come from the same small town as SIL (obviously), but unlike SIL never left. Genuinely nice but a sloppy drunk.
Stud – there’s just no other name I can give him. Stud went to high school with Brother, was co-captain of the soccer and lacrosse teams with him, and therefore was always at our house. He was my uber-crush. He was incredibly popular in school, too beautiful for words, and four years older than I was (and am). I worshipped him. I couldn’t get enough of him. And everyone (I repeat – everyone) knew it. And while Stud couldn’t have cared less about me, I always wanted him. So while I hadn’t seen him since I was 14 (and he graduated and went off to college), I’ll admit I never forgot him.
So, back to Brother and SIL’s engagement party. Stud was coming. No one had seen him in a long time (he moved to LA after college and worked at a magazine there), but he had just moved back. Brother extended an invite, and Stud said yes. He would be there – and he would be coming alone. Stud was single. And I had finally grown up.
What could possibly go wrong?
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