oh look, another poem

welcome to the 2nd installment of my poetry expo.

I call this one, Relationships.

Rather
Entertaining
Love
Affairs
Turned
Into
Obnoxious
Neurotic
Sexual
Habits
In
Public
Spaces

yolo

one (of the many) things I love about my friend G: she's always up for a night on the town.

we typically venture out to an area of The City where all men wear gingham button up shirts, or plaid.

on my way over to meet her, via public transportation, a caught a large seemingly homeless man, giving me the up-and-down.

bow-chikka-wow-wow

note: i say 'seemingly homeless' because i am not one to jump to conclusions. the man had a cart full of garbage and was carrying a large Hefty bag. he also smelled like a dumpster. i kept my distance.

is there anything more awkward than making eye contact while someone is checking you out?

he gave me the head nod, then said

YOLO

ohhh Mr. Yolo. I may only live once, but even if I was a cat with 9 lives, you would never be my type. im sure you understand.

our favorite bar was closed.
after i recovered from my panic attack, we found another establishment.

the night remained uneventful until we left that scene and headed down the street, on foot.

i high-fived a cute drunk boy.

then i heard someone shouting my name.
note: my name is extremely common. thanks mom and dad.
the shouting continued.

a car pulled over and out popped a friend of Mr. REA.

what a small world.

we called Mr. REA and flirted with unattractive men for free drinks until he showed up.

and at closing time, i sang the song Closing Time.
i'm tone deaf.
and now all my friends know that.

yolo.

Mr. LA

Remember that whole online-dating profile thing I set up?

Well, I finally got a hit that wasn't a total f-ing weirdo. thankfully. it was about time.

I grabbed dinner with Mr. LA last week.

a few things:

as my mother so kindly reminds me, I was born 2 weeks late. aaand I haven't shown up to a thing on time since. this date was no exception.

mexican restaurants = gas all night. isn't that the general rule?

Mr. LA's profile picture was only slightly deceiving. ...but he was super fun and easy to talk to. a perfect candidate for The Friend Zone.

I didn't order a drink. I spent the entire night wishing I had - slash - fantasizing about elaborate ways to get one.

I wouldn't say this reflected so much on his conversational skills, as it does on my obvious alcohol dependency.

so, that's that.

The Other John Stamos

the night started out with a dear friend and a delicious dinner. also known as a win-win.

on our walk over to the near-by bar, I recieved a compliment. or a comment. I'm not sure what to call it actually.

I like your hair. It's very...shabby chic.

For the record: i wouldn't describe my hair so much as shabby chic, but more as meg ryan-esque. or possibly just not brushed. Ratty might be the best term actually.

now let's pause for a sec because here's a man who actually physically resembled John Stamos. in regards to this blog, things are about to get confusing in the Stamos department.

more on that later.

note: on the laundry-list of things I'll do to get free drinks, flirting with men I normally wouldn't makes it to the top 5.

i stuck with this tactic until my liquid confidence was high enough to venture towards greener pastures. because this particular bar on this particular night was what they refer to as a full-blown sausage-fest, we had our pick.

as it turns out, this was a bachelor party.

jackpot.

one of the men claimed he knew me from somewhere.

note to men everywhere: this is not an effective pick up line. ever. you do not know me from anywhere.

it turns out, this man was friends with The Other John Stamos aka Mr. Shabby Chic. The Other John Stamos then proceeded to become a total cockblock.

ever had two friends fight over you at a bar?
yah, me neither.

this bachelor party was doing a bar crawl.
this bachelor party also had a party bus.

guys. i got on the party bus.

we went to a bar with a photo booth in it.

i'm now $20 poorer and have hilarious pictures of people i don't know decorating my refrigerator.

this makes up for my lost scarf.
sort of.

we ate hot dogs from a street vender.
i loaded mine with onions.
im a classy lady.

and at closing time, Mr. REA picked me up.

moral of the story: I don't have any morals.

cookie conflict

recently I had a little heart-to-heart with Brother. not to be confused with Other Brother.

being the only two single-ready-to-mingles left in our family, the conversation naturally drifted to my favorite topic, relationships.

this resulted in Brother breaking things down into an analogy I can comprehend - cookies.

if you're at the grocery store. and there are cookies on the counter, you're going to eat those cookies until someone says something. at that point, you have two choices: pay for the cookies, or walk away. 

he had to explain to me, that I am not the cookie-customer. in this story, I am the cookie lady.

the cookie-customer can walk around to different cookie counters and sample all sorts of cookies. but until the cookie lady asks him to pay, he gets free range of all the cookies. 

but Brother, what if there are multiple cookie-customers at my cookie counter? what if the cookie-customers don't like that there are other cookie-customers eating the same cookies? or even looking at the same cookies? or even thinking about looking at the same cookies?

as the cookie lady, if you want them to pay, you have to ask. as soon as they start paying for those cookies, they are your only cookie-customer. but, they also might walk away. so keep that in mind before you ask them to pay.

yikes. thanks bro.

WWCBD?

You've Been Chosen!

So one of the hilarious parts of this whole online-dating experiment is the part where The Website sends me these emails alerting me when someone has viewed my profile and rated me 4 or 5 stars.

Like I'm a hotel or something.

Anyway, it seems like the only ones rating me 4 or 5 stars are complete trolls.

I'm being chosen by trolls.

first I laugh. really really hard.

and then I cry.

master of the Acrostic

Fun Fact #1:
I recently spent 12 hours of quality time in the car with Brother.

Fun Fact #2:
I am a poet.

Fun Fact #3:
It would also appear that I am extremely immature.

so what?

Enjoy my #1 Top-Seller, entitled Marriage.

Miserable
Assholes
Really
Ruining
Intimate
Adult
Genital
Encounters

and oh baby, you better believe there is plenty more where that came from.

The Mints

I agreed to meet Mr. REA for dinner.

To prepare, I of course consulted BFF. Then bought a new outfit, per her advice. If I could, I'd send her the bill too. But I guess staying friends with someone like me is payment enough.

This resulted in a pair of new favorite heels. Naturally.

Sorry Reds, there's a new shoe in town.

meet The Mints.

They're much taller than you, and slightly sexier. However, they're also much more difficult to walk in. I've already injured myself wearing them. true story.

#girlproblems

Mr. REA picks me up. no flowers, no presents.
I'm a sucker for flowers and presents.
uhhh does he even know women?

Oh, and no explanation.

In the words of my good friend M:
I shaved my balls for this?

Boys can be so, blah.

So much for the new outfit. He showed up in a goddamn zip-up hoodie and vans. and still managed to look sexy as hell. How do guys do that?

Time to start demanding answers.

Hometown

so the best part about being out on the prowl in Hometown is that everyone already knows what a hot mess you are.

no questions asked.
no explanations needed.
no apologies necessary.

note: when i say you, just know that i really am actually referring to me. unless you're a hot mess too. in which case, let's go out.

it's impossible to prowl properly when there are boys in your group.

there. i said it. sorry boys.

but having said that, sometimes it's nice to be able to go out with a group of friends - boys & girls - and just have a good time together.

that's what friends are for, right?

so what if it doesn't result in a laundry-list of random phone numbers and names you'll never remember. or a night of endless free drinks and unlimited flirting. or a regretful one-night-stand.

when I'm in Hometown, those nights usually result in a grown-up slumber party with BFF.

slumber parties entail:
so. much. drinking wine in bed.
so. much. laughing.
so. much. talking about boys.
so. much. memory lane.
so. much. girl time.

sometimes the best part about being single & fabulous is having someone to share it with.

so. thanks, BFF.

morning after

It's a pretty amazing thing when you're hurting more from sheer embarrassment than the actual hangover.

Remember how I didn't close out my tab?
Well, I got a text from Scar letting me know that he grabbed my ID for me. What a kind and thoughtful boyfriend. It turns out, the club is closed on Sundays... good thing I slipped him my digits that first night, otherwise I'd have driven out of Small Town without my license.

note: Small Town is 3 hours south of Hometown. Hometown is 12 hours from The City.

We agreed to meet in the Jack-in-the-Box parking lot on my way out of town. This resulted in a very different kind of walk of shame. Should I, or should I not have, presented a written apology for my tendency to become a Hot Mess while under the influence of any beverage, including water?

sorry that I'm not sorry.

It also occurred to me that he had plenty of time to memorize my address and vitals. Now it's only a matter of time before I go missing...

Remember those sister twins?
Well it turns out, they aren't twins. They are liars.

Remember the tire blow out?
Well in this one-horse-town, all of the tire shops are closed on Sundays. Thank-you Sears Auto, I didn't know you still existed anymore. Without your help I may have been trapped in Small Town forever.

Remember the dead beta fish?
Well it rose from the dead.
now that was some freaky sh--.

icing on the cake.

well friends. I believe that I've reached what they refer to as a new low.

there is something very humbling about waking up next to your Date, staring straight into his gorgeous blue eyes and having him ask:

Want to hear a funny story?

note: this is never a safe question after a long night of drinking.

I proceeded with caution.

Yes.

I usually forget how classy I am until someone reminds me the next morning...

it would appear, according to The Date, that the following events occurred:

- I was completely drunk in front of two of my former teachers.
- I told the same Elevator Story, to the same people, each and every time I entered the elevator.
- The Date helped me undress.
- The Date helped me put on my pajamas.
- The Date tucked me into bed.
- The Date didn't even try to get fresh with me. or maybe he did. I was what they refer to as, blacked out.

one hour after I'm tucked in...

I scoot myself off the bed.
The Date asks if I'm going to barf.
I say no.
I remove my pants.
I walk into the corner.
I stand next to the bed.
I face the wall.

The Date hears water splashing.

The Date asks: did you barf?
no.
The Date asks: did you pee?
noooo...

The Date, now my Adult Babysitter, gets up to find out I have lied to him.

friends, I peed.
on the floor.
in the corner.
standing up.
with no pants on.

I redefined the term Hot Mess.

The Date took me to the bathroom.
sat me on the toilet.
wiped off my legs.
put my pants back on me.
walked me back to bed.
and tucked me in.

some of the pee-pee splattered on my shoes.
The Reds.

oh, and the fish died overnight.

remind me never to reproduce.

rendezvous at Rendezvous

at my request, we rendezvoused at Rendezvous after the reception.

I continued to buy drinks for everyone.
I'm one of those generous drunks.
put it on my tab became my new catchphrase.

I tried to be sexy and pull The Date's shirt up in the back. Except instead of untucking his shirt, I kept pulling his underwear up... resulting in wedgies.

hot, right?

me: hey did you know those girls are sisters?
The Date: yah, they're twins.
me: and they're sisters
The Date: twins are sisters...

that might have been around the time The Date started spoon feeding me water.

we only stayed for an hour. turns out, it's hard to dance when you can't stand up.

didn't close tab
didnt get lucky
didn't cry
didn't barf
didn't die

what I did do however, was much much worse.

reception

The Bride's aunt gave me the best compliment of the weekend:

you remind me so much of Kristin Wigg in Bridesmaids.

mission accomplished. 

I have to hand it to the Bride and Groom. 

They know how to throw a party. 

I cannot express to you enough how much I am not sorry for dancing. dancing is the best.
especially when you're as white as I am.

I won the center piece.
it was a beautiful vase with a live beta fish inside.
I won a pet.
bad idea.

remember how I had to pick up those tuxes?
well, everyone paid me back in cash.

bad idea.

I bought drinks for everyone. all night.

I also caught the bouquet.

aaaaand The Date caught the garter.

match made in heaven?
I think so.

that means you're supposed to sleep together, right? isn't that the tradition?

in hindsight, I probably should've stopped drinking when I introduced myself as the brother of the bride.

note: I am not a brother, nor am I related to Bride. Bride is an only child. and I'm a lush.

and then, we rendezvoused at Rendezvous.

rehearsal

is there anything easier than walking down the aisle then standing on either side of the bride and groom for what seems like an eternity? well, we had to practice that. a million times. ugh.

then it was time to eat. my favorite.

ahem. remember how Mr. REA refused to come to the wedding? well, I wasn't about to show up empty handed. and I wasn't allowed to bring BFF. so I brought my hometown hottie, The Date.

The Date is a very tall, very good-looking man. and generally very fun to be around.
The Date was the next natural choice after REA backed out.

the rehearsal dinner was at a very cute Cantina.
what was not-so-cute about this Cantina was that Happy Hour only existed in the main part of the restaurant. not in the private party room.

this is what I refer to as, a happy hour mishap.
or an unhappy hour.

luckily, The Date shared my feelings.

at 6:55, exactly 5 minutes from the end of HH, we snuck away to the main bar. we made a sacred pact to be gone for no longer than 15 minutes.

75 minutes, 4 pints and 1 olympic opening ceremony later...

we stumble back to the private party room.

door is locked.
room is empty.
everyone is gone.
party is over.

oops.

we ended the night at my new favorite place.
Rendezvous.

The Date, meet Scar.
Scar, meet The Date.

free shots? don't mind if we do.

Scar

When I awoke the morning after the bachelorette bash, I had booze bruises & a migrane.
as is tradition.

booze bruises refer to anytime I go out drinking, and do not get into a street fight, but still wake up with injuries of unknown origin.

I also had a little message on my phone.

hey cutie, its Scar the bartender.

uhhhh pretty sure his name last night was the same as my Other Brother's. This isn't the first time I've been jiggy with a man with the same name as a family member. hot.

note: I don't feel bad using his 'real name' in this scenario because it's unclear which one is actually his birthname.

Naturally, I had to inquire about the Scar.

well it's been my nickname since high school cause i was always beat up from riding and kick boxing then when i was 21 i got stabbed 18 times and it really stuck...

Scar, my boyfriend and future husband slash future father of my unborn children, was stabbed 18 times.

Of course, my next thought was, 18 times in a row? or 18 isolated incidents of 1 stab each? or 6 incidents with 3 stabs each? or 3 incidents with 6 stabs each? or 10 incidents with 1 stab each and 4 incidents of 2 stabs each?

the combinations are endless.

i got jumped by two wannabe gangbangers with a buck knife and a machete. i still put both of them in the hospital but i did die for a second in the helicopter on the way to the hospital from blood loss. 


yikes.

wannabe gangbangers? a buck knife and a machete?

he's a keeper.

bachelorette party

After proving to the bridal party what a classy lady I am, we set out for The Bride's last night on the prowl.

side note: in this Small Town, there aren't too many establishments to choose from.

We settled for a fancy little placed called Rendezvous.

another side note: When I've already been drinking, I describe most things as fancy.
This includes: drinks, men, places, clothes, cars, hotels, food, shoes and everything else in the world.

If I counted correctly, there were 9 other people in this club. 13 including the Bachelorette Party.

Naturally, I was the only single member of bridal party. and oh-so ready to mingle.

The dance floor was empty.
The drinks were 2-4-1.
The night was my oyster.

I love dancing. sorry that I'm not sorry.

The best part about rolling with the Bachelorette Party is that when the Bride drinks, we all drink. And everyone was buying drinks for the Bride.

holler.

I was doing what is refered to as spitting game.

It's not quite as effective when a white girl says it, but you get the picture.

I handed out my number to i dont know how many men. I think it was actually just one. but if my Onliners find out about this they'll think I'm a whooore. 

yolo.

D was an older man, maybe in his 30's. who insisted that my birthplace was in fact, not outside of the larger City I claimed it was. D needs a lesson in geography. D was buying, so I let him think he was correct. 

N was a hottie-boom-ba-lottie for sure. but after we overheard some chatter in the ladies bathroom I found out two things:

N's real name is T.

N has two kids.

bring. it. on.

I attempted to give The Bartender a fatty tip at the end of the night. I also slipped him my number on the receipt. classy, I know.

sidenote: I've never done that fancy little trick before. But when you're in a Small Town, with no intention of returning, you'll do just about anything.

I'm also not so hot with math, or numbers in general so it's unclear how well that's going to work out for me.

I'm sure there's a good reason he hasn't called.

right?

no comment.

Naturally, the first thing I did when I finally made it to my hotel room (after the tire blow out) was clog the toilet.

yes friends, you read that correctly. I'll spare you the deets. 

I tried that little trick where you just keep flushing and hope that the waste will dislodge itself. This ritual usually includes a short prayer:

dear God, please help this terrible beast to seek the light and go peacefully down the pipes before I bring a man back here to seduce me into oblivion. amen.

I left it to fester while I met up with the fam. 

later that night...

I brought the bridal party back to my room to pregame. 

I. am. so. embarrassing. 

made the bride-to-be call the front desk for the plunger.

made the maid-of-honor go downstairs to pick up said plunger.

I plunged a toilet. in heels. sorry Reds.

brought plunger back to male receptionist. 

went out for a night on the prowl. 

Put another check mark on my bucket list. Bam. 

i hate driving.

Here is a very short story, written in fragments, about the time I recently drove three hours into the desert to pick up some tuxes for my Other Brother's wedding.

drove to the wrong tux shop.
got lost trying to find the correct tux shop.
had to go #2. really. badly.
wanted to f-ing drive my car over a cliff.

found correct tux shop.
picked up tuxes.
still had to go #2. really. badly.

20 miles away from my final destination.
tire blows out.
on the highway.
in the middle of no where.
it was hot outside.
still had to go #2. really. badly.

damsel in distress.

DPS came to the rescue.
officer was what I frequently describe as a "hottie-boom-ba-lottie"
we empty my trunk to reach spare tire.
he removes a case of 7up.
cans of 7up explode from heat exposure.
soda everywhere.
still had to go #2. really. badly.

he replaces tire.
i pick up remaining 7up case.
7ups blew their load, again.
drenched me in sticky soda.
dejavu
at least he stuck around to help me clean up.
that's what gentlemen do.

still had to go #2. really. badly.